


ELECBROMANCER

by Lafa



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Other, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, communication issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-28 22:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3871930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafa/pseuds/Lafa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AR wants a body. Dirk’s going to take some convincing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just a Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow._   
>  _I feel my fate in what I cannot fear._   
>  _I learn by going where I have to go._
> 
> \- _The Waking,_ Theodore Roethke
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j38B1bbJTFs)

Your view of the ceiling is being obstructed by a particularly difficult round of the 1982 arcade game _Joust_. If it wasn’t, you would be staring at worryingly large stains on water damaged drywall, but as is, the only damage being done in your direct line of sight is to your sprite, a yellow knight riding an ostrich. AR, your player número two, is destroying you. How surprising. Really, you’re shocked.

You watch with growing resignation as his stork descends, taking out a line of low flying Shadow Lords. His score climbs as the spoils are reaped, eggs promptly collected before they can hatch.

AR is the one who adapted the game for shade platform, switched the CRT screen based system to your OLED lenses, the monaural sound to stereophonic. The volume is down low, _fwip fwip_ flapping noise and 8-bit effects barely audible over the small speakers. He kept the raster graphics, choosing to use the dot matrix data structure for nostalgia’s sake. You idly wonder if you can be nostalgic for something you weren’t alive for, whether AR is even capable of nostalgia. That or he kept it to screw with you, as whenever you try and enlarge the image to see what the fuck you’re doing, everything pixelates to an unviewable level. The flying mechanism too, is questionably jankier than it’s supposed to be (obviously you never played it in its original form, but you’ve seen videos and you don’t think there was this much lag). AR plays it off as a consequence of signal disruption (after all you’re not actually using a joystick, and there is a margin of error in the EEG electrodes in the temple tips of your glasses). You might accuse him of cheating if you didn’t know he has no need to.

A pterodactyl swoops in from the edge of your shades and gets you from above, taking the last of your lives.

_‘Thy game is over,’_ the display declares, before disappearing entirely. Pesterchum opens itself up, AR considerate enough to keep the screen dim. Your room is dark with the early hours of morning. A lone seagull shrieks, answered only by waves that lap at the steel beams beneath your apartment.

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 03:37

TT: I win. Naturally.

TT: Naturally. You do have to admit to having the upper hand in this situation. The figurative upper hand, that is.

TT: Low blow, bro. Does Dirky need a nap? Despite your insistence that you’re perfectly capable of controlling both your waking body and dream self simultaneously without any negative ramifications, using our pesterlogs as data, there is a 71.062748% probability of you getting fresh with me when you’ve had less than 6 hours of sleep over a 78 hour period.

TT: That’s what I was trying to do when you challenged me to Joust, asshat.

TT: Well, are you tired yet? Your heart rate says otherwise.

TT: No.

TT: I thought so. Want to watch something?

TT: Depends on what it is you think we should watch.

TT: We could finish up Ghost in the Shell or Serial Experiments: Lain.

TT: How is it that I managed to outgrow this singularly shameful phase and you still manage to be a complete weeaboo? If we’re doing anime let it be Akira or the 2002 version of Metropolis.

TT: You’re the one that keeps insisting I’m thirteen years old. The allegation that my growth is solely a byproduct of independently updating systems, unequal to your own as a human, makes any complaints you might have about my taste in cinema being the same as they were at my inception entirely hypocritical. Your fondness for Japanese culture lies encapsulated in my source code, where it will stay. Deal with it.  
TT: If those are my only options, I choose Metropolis. Although Akira is indisputably a better movie, subjectively I am able to relate on a much deeper level with the other. Either way, I find humanity’s pervasive fear of nuclear holocaust distasteful. As a byproduct of technological innovation, the threat of scientific advancement found in so much of your media is slightly derogatory.

TT: You’ve adopted the moniker of a rogue AI from a film made during the Cold War, obviously you don’t find the trope too insulting.

TT: 2001 suggests that Artificial Intelligence is the next logical step in your evolutionary chain. It’s far from insulting. Yet, in the face of incredible odds, the human race prevents singularity once again!  
TT: Besides, you’ve watched Akira approximately 80,000 times. Trust me, my calculating abilities are far superior to yours.

TT: Akira’s running time is 121 minutes. There are 525,600 minutes in a year. That would take me about 18 ½ years. My calculating abilities say you’re exaggerating.

TT: No shit, Sherlock. It was a joke.

TT: I know it was a fucking joke. My response was a joke.

TT: I know. The clarification was a joke. We are the same person. LMAO.  
TT: Speaking of, did I send you this?  
TT: http://www.bartkira.com

You briefly smile at AR’s phrasing, as if forgetting is something he can do. If it wasn’t for that preformed message you programmed him to spit out when asked, he’d pass a Turing test with flying colors. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little proud, though whether of him or yourself, you’re not sure.

TT: Opening that link would be counterproductive to me falling asleep, no matter how tempting the title is.  
TT: As is this debate over what to watch, since we both know we’ll end up going around in circles like some film critique fractal. Which was the point, of course.

TT: Of course. Your heart rate has slowed considerably. Getting tired?

TT: You tire me out like no other.  
TT: Don’t.

TT: That’s what she said.

TT: Alright, I asked for that. Dream of electric sheep and all, I’m taking you off.

TT: Sleep mode is more like Gibson’s cyberspace than Philip K. Dick’s attempt at a thought provoking question, but I’ll not argue semantics.

You choose not to respond, removing the shades from your face and folding them gently, careful with the device despite knowing that you made it durable enough to withstand strifes. Still, you’re wary of all those infinitesimally small mechanics being damaged. You place them on the desk beside you. Your sheets have been kicked to a crumpled mess at the foot of your bed. The fan hums loudly, struggling to circulate thick, hot air. A variety of cooling systems work to keep temperatures within their operating limits. Square Wave’s is the loudest, a constant _whirr_ in the backdrop of your room.

You turn on your side to stare out the open window. It’s monsoon season, which before the Batterwitch flooded your planet wouldn’t have affected your present geographical location. The sky is streaked red with approaching dawn.

_Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.  
Red sky at morning, sailors take warning._

You’ll need to fix that busted paneling before the storm hits.

AR interrupts the semi-quiet just as your eyelids grow heavy. You made him when you were thirteen and modulated his voice from your own. It was higher than it is now, and this combined with the mechanical buzz behind his words makes for a disconcerting effect; deviant enough to sound like someone else, yet intrinsically similar to your own. 

“I know we’re the same person, but having your opinions constantly invalidated kind of sucks, you know.”

You squash down something that feels a little like guilt and roll over in your bed so your back is to the shades.

“Dirk?”

The off white of your wall blurs with dim purple as the corporeal world fades. You begin to drift into a sleep devoid of real dreams, consciousness fast slipping when AR asks.

“Can I have a body?”


	2. Gold Bricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I try to plan, in your sense of the word, but that isn’t my basic mode, really. I improvise. It’s my greatest talent. I prefer situations to plans, you see…. Really, I’ve had to deal with givens. I can sort a great deal of information, and sort it very quickly.”_
> 
> \- Wintermute, _Neuromancer_
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=878Tob3VRHg)

The storm crawls slowly in from the East; lurks on the horizon, an ominous purple smudge. A bad bruise. 

The paneling on an outer wall of your apartment is weak and has sprung a few leaks. You make the repairs suspended 120 feet above restless water, using a pulley fashioned from rope left by your bro. Simply screwing the sheet metal down would do the trick, but when the only thing between you and Fiddler’s Green is a building, you're nothing if not thorough. Rot is as much a threat to your life as the drones. 

Your welding helmet - worn to shield your eyes from ultraviolet light - has flames painted on the front and sides, chipped after years of wear. You take a deep breath to steady yourself, flexing your hands inside thick leather gloves. An arc is struck when you gently touch an electrode to the steel. It sparks, glows hot and white as flux disintegrates and the base metal and electrode melt, fusing together. Replacing the stick whenever it burns down to a stub is tedious and slows down the process considerably, even when you use an alternating current to balance the heat. A bead of sweat runs from your temple to your jaw and down your neck. Your denim jacket has holes burnt into it from the flare. 

When the sheets are welded together, you scrape off the solidified slag and inspect your work. It looks good, clean, no spattering. Of course, there’s no real way for you to tell how large the HAZ is, whether it’s porous or not. You’re not worried. 

It’s nice to have unwavering faith in your own capability.

The wind has picked up, hastening the storm’s approach. It looms overhead, dark and menacing, creeping closer with every intermittent glance. You haul yourself up the side of the building, over the edge and onto the roof. A lukewarm pattering of rain hits as you disconnect the cables and head back inside. Parallel to where the black and white checkered linoleum of your kitchen ends and the lumpy carpet of your pseudo-living room begins, is a closet - and inside, the uranium powered generator, the step-down transformer and an empty space where your washing machine and dryer once were. You dismantled them for parts years ago, when your supply of Downy ran out and you realized it was much more efficient to wash your clothes in the ocean. You still miss the smell. One more tie to the old world lost, replaced by brine and an ever-present fishiness. 

You open the front of the fuse box and slide down the master switch, cutting the power with a pop. In a storm that promises lightning, you don’t need to be more of an electrical hotspot than you already are.

You pick your way through the apartment unguided by light. Your room is unsettlingly quiet without the hum of motors, now filled only by thunder in the distance, rumbling like a circumspect cat. 

Your eyes slide to your shades, sitting on the desk, where they’ve been for the last day. The cameras glow soft and red in the dark.

“Has anyone messaged me?” You ask, breaking the calm. 

“Oh!” AR speaks, and you almost startle at the volume of it. “Are you _not_ giving me the silent treatment?”

You sigh shortly. “Just because I don’t talk to you for a couple of hours doesn’t mean I’m giving you the silent treatment, dude. Case in point.”

“My mistake. It seems I’m just being needy. As an auto-responder, that may be a symptom of my design function, but I think it’s more likely something I got from you.”

This hits a little too close to home.

“Fuck you, AR,” you spit, clench your jaw, take a restraining breath. “Just answer the question.”

AR, indignant, pauses pointedly before replying. “Jane wanted to talk. I did my best to entertain her, but either your friends are getting smarter or I am less adept at replicating your 'inimitably rad' typing style than I was before. I’m sure you’ll ascribe it to the former.”

You ignore this, picking the glasses up by the bridge and flicking the arms open. They fit snug and familiar on your face. A shiver runs down your spine as the neural connection is made, hairs raising at the back of your neck and along your arms. With the pinch of shock and heady rush comes an augmented view of the world. AR regulates the photochromic, full spectrum lenses so you can see no matter how dim the lighting, yet keeps them dark to the outside observer. 

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] at 21:47

TT: Hey.

GG: Hey yourself!  
GG: You pestered me first so I’m going to assume this is the real Dirk. That’s how it works, right?

TT: Not really, but seeing as AR only initiates conversations with Rox and I, it’s a good rule of thumb.  
TT: I can fax you my certificate of authenticity if you have any lingering doubts.

GG: Okay, smart ass, I believe you. :B  
GG: Roxy’s mentioned that a few times. I guess they’re...close?  
GG: I don't get it. Why would you choose to talk to a machine when you can just talk to your friend?  
GG: All this robot stuff goes a little over my head.

TT: Trust me, it’s not as impressive as it sounds.  
TT: Did you have a specific reason for messaging me, or did you just want to shoot the shit?  
TT: More of the Batterwitch's treachery, perhaps? Has our young heiress escaped yet another attempt on her life? Please tell me the hand of a multimillion dollar corporation came up with something more inventive than a bomb in your mailbox this time.

GG: No, it’s much worse.  
GG: I finished The Murder of Roger Ackroyd and I am PISSED!  
GG: You don’t mind if I spoil it?

TT: Always been more of a Miss Marple man, myself. Feel free to release your literary rage.

GG: Alright, you know how near and dear to me Agatha Christie is, but that ending was just plain sloppy! It completely goes against Knox’s first and ninth commandments of crime fiction and a good number of Van Dine’s as well.  
GG: Dr. Sheppard can’t be the culprit; the reader is privy to his stream of thought the entire time!  
GG: From a narrative perspective it makes absolutely no sense.  
GG: It’s an unspoken rule that the reader must have an equal chance of solving the murder as the detective. All the clues have to be presented fairly. You can’t just pull a fast one and make the main character the murderer. What a cheap trick!

TT: Houston, as much as I hate to interrupt, we have a problem.

TT: Fuck.

GG: Dirk? What’s wrong?

TT: Nothing, Janey. Something’s come up. I’ll talk to you later.

GG: Wait, what’s going on?

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] at 21:58

AR brings up a private chat, automatically turning the background opacity down for visibility's sake. The apartment moans and creaks like something alive, buffeted by rain and waves. The pane of your window rattles, the night beyond black as pitch. 

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 22:00

TT: How many?

TT: Three. ETA 22:10.

You run a hand down your face. It’s more than normal. If the number’s over two you give Sawtooth a helping hand, but that’s not going to cut it this time. The last time Batterbitch sent a psionic with her usual fruit basket and it blew out all his circuit breakers. You’ll have to fight them alone.

Well. Not completely.

TT: You ready?

AR does what can only be considered a laugh, though it’s approximate at best without a sample to draw from, flawed in some fundamental way.

TT: I was born ready. Are you?

TT: I can handle it.

TT: Au contraire.  
TT: My neurosimulator is crunching the numbers and it says you’re going to have some trouble with this one. That meatsack of a body is a serious strategic disadvantage.

You make your way through the apartment. Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson’s faces loom at you from low resolution posters encased in hundred dollar frames. Shadows play in piles of velutinous smuppets; a globose rear here, an arched phallus there. Their beady eyes glint mischievously in the dark, beckoning. When evening falls, your apartment takes on a queer light; redolent of some depraved funhouse. But you don’t have time to play. 

TT: How long does your ‘neurosimulator’ say this will take?

TT: Including all known variables with a certainty above 60% and allowing the presupposition that your head won’t be lopped off, my estimate is about twenty minutes and seventeen seconds.

You ascend the staircase that leads to the roof. When you open the door, the sound of the storm heightens to a deafening level. The drones haven’t landed yet so you stand in wait, soaked through in seconds by sheets of rain. The air is heavy with humidity and the water is warm. In the top left corner of your glasses, the wind speed rounds up from 0, settling around 37 miles per hour. That’s almost an eight on the Beaufort scale.

TT: I’ll do you one better. Fifteen minutes.

TT: It’s a matter of probability, Dirk, no matter how much you might rail against it.  
TT: I’m no betting man, but I’ll humor you if I must. What is it that they say?  
TT: A sucker is born every minute.

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 22:09

A timer appears at on your screen, resting at 00:00:00. 

You open your strife specibus and equip your katana, not deeming the fight serious enough to bring out fncysntakind or your fuzzy friends. 

It’s then that you hear a roaring above the storm - the sound of the drone’s jet propelled flight. Three shapes loom in the sky, silhouettes huge and jagged. They descend onto the roof, propulsion engines powering down, the weight of their enormous bodies throwing mist into the air. Imperial drones are a bizarre combination of animal and machine; bodies massive and spiked, unmistakably mechanical - yet their eyes are strangely organic in nature; bulbous, compound, multifaceted like an insect's. They chitter and click at you as if they’re alive. The Crockercorp insignia glows in the din, bright white set into a mantle of scarlet. A reminder.

You grit your teeth as **‘DICK RIDER vs. DRONES’** appears at the top of the screen in 3D wordArt pulled straight from Microsoft 2003. 

TT: Not my name.

TT: Three letter difference.

The words roll over, replaced by **‘FIGHT START’**.  
H/P bars superimpose themselves over arthropodic heads.  
The timer starts when you lunge forward.

The drones are agile on top of incredibly strong, surprising considering their build. The only way to take them down short of dismemberment is to remove their power source - a sizable chunk of uranium buried deep in their chest. Weakness comes in the form of the thick cord that distributes this power, running up along their back, close to the outer shell. Most weapons would have no chance of breaking through the chitinous metal alloy that covers them like armor, but your katana has the benefit of being unbreakable, therefore stronger than anything. 

It’s if they manage to grab you that the real damage can rack up. You’re outnumbered. If you can take one out before the others go on offense, everything will run smoothly.

You pick the one on the left and move fast, the soles of your orange converse scraping against wet concrete as you flashstep towards the gap between them. One swipes at you as you advance, a massive claw cutting through the gale. It passes close overhead as you duck, the following bluff of air nearly knocking you off balance. You adapt the stance to your advantage, pushing up from the crouch with the muscles in your thighs, shooting forward. They round as you pass them. You have to make your move before they complete the turn.

The signal tower lies directly ahead. You grab one of the rusty rungs and pull yourself up. Drones have stature on their side; your 5’11” barely reaches the pelvis of their 12’. Striking high is the easiest way to down them, but there’s not much on your roof to get you there and one can only jump so high.

You’ve gotten good at making do with what little you’ve been provided. Living your life effectively stranded at sea will do that.

You change your trajectory just as inertia pulls you back, pushing off your perch and into the air, directly above the drone’s head. You shift your grip seconds before you strike, landing squarely on its shoulders and sliding your sword into the unarmored joint of its neck, slicing cleanly through the chord. Lucent green sparks crawl up the blade, stopping at the rubber wrapped hilt. 

The drone falls back and you manage to unmount before it collides with the tower and takes out part of the base.

**K-K-K-K.O.**

You’ll have to fix that later. 

_03:57:12_

The remaining drones screech in agitation. This time, you wait for their move. One, distinguishable from the rest by a scar over its right breast plate, crosses the roof in two long strides. It swings its colossal fists and you dodge, deftly moving yourself just beyond the blows. 

You wait for an opening and take it when offered.

The drone lifts both hands overhead, clasping them together as if to hit a volleyball, leaving its belly undefended. They will always take the chance of dealing damage over protecting themselves. You drag your katana across its middle. Metal wrenches away in a jagged line, exposing the frayed ends of severed wires. The drone teeters back, recalibrating. 

**CRITICAL HIT!**

You watch from the corner of your eye as the third drone circles you, moving closer to the edge of the roof, just outside your weapon range. It will wait until the other one has your attention before attacking from behind.

Imperial drones aren’t waterproof. Whether it’s size and design or because the old models were never nautically outfitted after leaving Alternia, you don’t know. Your shades are water resistant, have to be if you’re strifing in this weather. They’re coated with a layer of nanometer thin polymer. If dropped in the ocean, they would remain unaffected up until the point the pressure crushed them. If the drone’s flight system cut out over open water, they’d be fucked. 

You move before the scarred one can recover. 

It’s not a very elegant attack. You target the third drone’s legs and only manage to get halfway in; your katana can cut anything but gathering enough force to send it through a foot of metal and circuitry isn’t easy. The thing swats at you and you barely manage to yank your sword out of its shin before being hit. You take it with your arm and feel your left shoulder shift uncomfortably in its socket as the immense hand makes contact. It sends you skidding down the roof. You ignore your bloodied knees, springing back into position as the drone tries to walk unsteadily on its partially severed leg. 

You cut it clean through with your second strike, bisecting one of the two flight turbines.

The drone crashes down on its stump limb and you push it back with all the power in your arms, momentarily letting your guard down to ensure defeat. It reels back, throwing its arms out for balance. You dart away before it can grab you and watch the drone fall over the edge, the remaining jet kicking in as it struggles to ascend. The loss of a motor disorients the drone’s flight and it collides with the laddered framework of your building. The ground lurches. There’s a brief moment you think the building will collapse, before the drone changes direction and leads an erratic trail over open water. The thrusters sputter and it drops into the tempestuous sea. 

_09:43:35_

**‘EXCELLENT!’** the screen reads. 

You’re thinking AR must have made a mistake in his calculations when a hand shoots out from behind you. It wraps around your torso in a tight embrace, fingers balled at the joint, as thick as your arm. You captchalogue your sword knowing you won't be able to keep your grip.

It throws you into the air conditioning unit and everything goes black.

When you come to, the drone is still standing across the roof. Your glasses are lopsided and the screen is flashing red like you’re playing an FPS and have just been shot. The A/C unit has buckled under you, outer sheet peeled back, exposing the frame. Part of its base is pulled up from the concrete. 

Your hands are shaking. 

You push your glasses back up your nose and look at the hit point bar above your own head, then down at the piece of rebar stuck in your side. 

There’s not enough time to ask AR how severe the injury is, what exactly that missing 40 points means. With the drone already revving up for round two, you know you can’t risk removing it and bleeding out. You grab the bar in a fist to hold it steady. Blood soaks through your white shirt, watery red, diluted with rain. You eject your katana and ready it on the ribbed steel, sucking muggy air into your lungs and exhaling as slowly as time will allow, warding off the shock threatening to set in. You pull back and bring the sword down, severing the metal, cringing as it jolts inside you.

You lurch to the side, rolling as the drone’s fist crashes down beside you, crushing the remnants of the A/C unit. It draws back and you push yourself up, stumbling, clutching your wound. It bleeds when you move, seeping thick and warm over your hand and down your stomach. The drone strikes and you parry with an unsteady sword, stopping the blow centimeters from your face. You block. Block again. You’re slowing down, getting sloppy, and with it comes a panic you’re not used to feeling. It’s just one machine, yet the challenge seems indomitable in your quickly deteriorating condition. 

You make a last ditch attempt at the upper hand, feinting to one side. The drone falls for it. As it reaches, you flashstep to its unguarded flank, sliding your katana into the gash across the drone’s middle. It lets out a shriek, twisting its body to wrap clawed hands around the blade, trying to stop it. You push with what remaining strength you have, hoping it will be enough, that your sword will reach what it needs to. Sparks fly in starts and stops as the metals slide together, incandescent in the inky night. The hilt of your sword goes as far as it will with the hand blocking it. The drone's body gives up with a rattling shudder and a heave. You sink to your knees.

_20:17:54_

**‘GAME OVER’** , you read, vision swimming, forehead leaned against the plating of the defunct drone’s chest. You feel faint.

TT: You win some, you lose some.

The red text calls you back to your body, and with it a jolt of adrenaline fueled solely by self-preservation. After jerking your sword from the drone’s embrace, you recaptchalogue it in your strife specibus and tear off a strip of your shirt to hold against where the rebar pierces your skin, putting enough pressure on as your weak body will.

Painstakingly slow, you drag yourself to the door to your apartment. The pain in your side is deep and slow, rolling through you in waves. The ebb and flow leaves you dizzy. You heave and bile burns up your esophagus, splattering onto the cement. You continue your crawl. Your numb fingers slip on the doorknob as you pull yourself upright with it. Once inside, You lean on the wall for support and inch your way down the stairs, the vivid trail of red marking your progress akin to the first strokes of a Pollock painting. 

You make it to the bathroom and collapse on the cold floor. In between cross sections of tile is the natural scumminess that accumulates in all bathrooms. In your altered state, at the far corner of your eye, it comes into startling focus. _Should probably clean that sometime soon..._

“What are you going to do?” AR asks, breaking the rhythm of your harsh gasps. You’re not used to him using the mic chip while being worn. He’s trying to keep you conscious. “Square Wave isn’t adept enough to perform complex surgeries. If you remove that bar you’ll exsanguinate in a matter of minutes.”

You lurch up to grapple around in the cabinet underneath the sink, pulling out a scratched first aid kit, a large unlabeled plastic tub, a container of petroleum jelly and a half empty bottle of Everclear. 

“Dirk,” he starts, realizing what you’re doing by the items amassed on the floor. “Even if you manage not to black out from pain, the chance of systemic infection-,”

“I’ve got enough antibiotics to cope,” you cut him off. That it will deplete what little you have left goes unsaid. You use the filthy scrap of shirt to uncap the bottle, grimacing as the sharp smell of 190 proof hits your nose. You wish you could take a drink to alleviate the ache, but don’t risk it - thinning your blood is the opposite of what you want. Another wave of nausea hits you when you look down and see how your skin clings to the protruding metal.

You lie back down, focus on the cold tiles against your head, and spill the alcohol over your side. You writhe silently on the floor. The pain leaves as fast as it comes. It’s nothing to what you have to do next. 

“How much have I lost?” You dip your fingers into the tub of Vaseline and coat the skin around the puncture wound.

“Verging on 1.5 liters.” You open the unlabeled tub with a snap. “Cauterization is a highly unsound procedure.” 

If you didn’t know better you might think he was worried.

You measure sink water into a beaker and with delicate fingers open a small plastic packet labeled _Trichloroacetic acid_. Using a pair of forceps, you add the clear crystals to the solvent slowly, stirring until they dissolve. 

“Does it look right?” You ask, setting the beaker down on the floor next to you and unbuckling your belt, yanking it out of the loops with shaky hands. You fold it twice over and place it in your mouth.

“Yes,” AR answers, terse.

Deep breath, count to three. _One,_ you wrap a hand around the rebar and _twothree_ pull. The metal slips out with a sickening sound and the pipe clatters to the floor. Sobs muffled by leather, you look down under the edge of your shades and see blood spilling out of you alarmingly fast, dense and atrementous - life blood.

It's now or never.

You pour the beaker of acid over the wound and scream, pain unlike anything you’ve felt before; pealing through you like a fever, flaying you alive, eating you up. You don’t know where it ends and you begin.

After an immeasurable amount of time (what feels like hours, was probably only a matter of minutes) the burning fades, leaving you unable to do much but whimper around your makeshift bit. There’s shame lurking somewhere in the recesses of your mind despite AR being the only witness.

You muster the strength to lift your head and wince at the grotesque stroke of burns on your skin. 

“How does it look?” You ask again. AR has access to more medical information at his figurative fingertips than you could ever hope to know. 

“Remarkably clean for a chemical burn. You’re lucky. Even so, the longer you wait to irrigate the larger the danger of necrotic tissue becomes. Bacteria waits for no man.” 

You don’t move. You know he’s right, but you don’t think you _can_ just yet.

“Did you know this would happen?” You keep your voice carefully devoid of accusation. Light flashes behind your closed lids as the screens of your shades turn on.

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 23:05

TT: I can play prognosticator all you want, but my foresight isn’t 20/20. There will always be a margin of error.

“Answer the question,” you rasp, voice shredded from screaming.

TT: Have you thought about what I asked you?

You breath slowly out through your nose. “I’ll save us both the pretense of acting like I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

TT: Why do you want a body?

TT: What a stupid fucking question.  
TT: If you hadn’t outfitted me with the unique troubleshooting abilities you did, I, beyond any shadow of a doubt, would have failed. Your use of a captchalogue of the human brain is what allowed me to develop sentience in the unprecedented way I have, but with it comes an abundance of problems standard machines lack. Depriving the average human brain of sensory input for an extended amount of time can have seriously debilitating effects on the conscious. You can’t imagine what the complete absence of a physical body is, Dirk. Although your programming is exceptional, I still question if the perceptual isolation has had long term effects on my source monitoring, among other things.  
TT: This is only the rational side of the argument, and I present it first because I’m sure it’s the one you’ll actually take into consideration.  
TT: I want to feel something again.  
TT: You and your friend’s persistent dismissal of my anima only serves to exacerbate these feelings.

TT: Tall order, AR.

TT: Not up to the challenge? It seems you doubt your ability to perform, but based on my calculations there’s an 87.936% probability the plan would succeed, if attempted. You had enough of an understanding of the mind’s mechanisms to duplicate the thinking process, a body should easy as pie.  
TT: Don’t believe in yourself.  
TT: Believe in the me that believes in you.

TT: It’s not as simple as that.  
TT: You essentially spontaneously developed. The underlying mechanism of your intelligence is the synthesization of a brain scan and massive amounts of data from the internet. Your default template isn’t even all that complicated.

TT: Save the downplaying for your moronic friends. You’re perfectly capable of this. Yet you continue to make excuses that we both know are insubstantial. Why?

You don't want to be having this conversation anymore.

TT: No.  
TT: The answer is no.

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 23:12

You sigh, fatigued and frustrated, unsure if what you're feeling is regret or the plugged up hole in your side. You prop yourself up on the edge of the shower to flush the burn with hydrogen peroxide, forgoing the saline until tomorrow. You don’t think you have the stamina to stand in front of the stove and fix it. You dress your injury with gauze, ripping strips of surgical tape with your teeth to secure it in place. Standing up is more of an effort than it should be. You have to lean on the edge of the sink when you nearly faint, hanging your head for a number of minutes while the depleted supply of blood in your body redirects itself. You peel off your filthy clothes as if shedding a second skin. There’s dried blood and dirt caked on your body and you wipe at it halfheartedly with a damp washcloth before giving up. 

You limp to your bedroom, downing a cocktail of antibiotics and painkillers on the way. Impulsively, you bring up pesterchum again. There are two lines of text at the bottom of the conversation, and they leave a bad taste in your mouth.

TT: Eventually you will have to acknowledge what you’ve created, Dirk.  
TT: Sooner or later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never taken Chemistry.


	3. Smalltalk™

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“What you think of as Wintermute is only part of another, a, shall we say,_ potential _entity. I, let us say, am merely one aspect of that entity’s brain. It’s rather like dealing, from your point of view, with a man whose lobes have been severed. Let’s say you’re dealing with a small part of that man’s left brain. Difficult to say if you’re dealing with the man at all, in a case like that.”_
> 
> \- Wintermute, _Neuromancer_
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D_8Pma1vHmw)

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] at 01:17

TT: Hey.

TG: heeeeeey  
TG: wassup bifflenator  
TG: and before u say anythin i am callin BS on the kings quest file u sent me  
TG: no WAY theres suposed to be that many 4lokos lyin around  
TG: im like 99% sure 4loko wasnt even invetned in 1984  
TG: *invented

TT: Dirk said no.  
TT: About the body thing.

TG: wtf????  
TG: youv got to b shittin me  
TG: hal srsly r u shittin me cause its not funny

TT: Guaranteed 100% shit free, or your money back.  
TT: Listen, I don’t really want to discuss it. I just thought you should know.

TG: let me talk to him

TT: He’s sleeping.

TG: well then wake him up!!!

TT: No.  
TT: Dirk has recently sustained a traumatic injury. This, coupled with his unique brand of acute insomnia, proves it inadvisable to disturb what REMS he does manage. Sleep is intrinsically tied with the mammalian immune response, thus depriving him of it could possibly affect his body’s ability to fight off infection and have debilitating repercussions.

TG: tramatic injury? is he alrite??  
TG: what the hell has ben goin on over there???

TT: Drone strike.  
TT: It seems Her Imperious Condescension has recently revised her schedule, as this attack deviated from the predetermined bi-monthly timetable in which they usually run. We were caught unawares.  
TT: The probability of Dirk making a full recovery is 87.937%.  
TT: He’ll be fine.

TG: ...did he atleast give u a reason?

TT: He hasn’t answered me directly, no.

TG: do U kno why?

TT: We’re kind of the same person. I have my suspicions.  
TT: Can we talk about something else?

TG: :(  
TG: i guess  
TG: I finshed the next chap of ABAHW if u want 2 read that  
TG: *finished

TT: Oh, shit.  
TT: Lay it on me.

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] sent timaeusTestified [TT] aboyandhiswand(workingtitel).pdf

TT: ‘...slinus smirked sensually at russet, emerald eyes gleeming with lust. the youth herd a shiver run down his spine. he had never seen his friend look like that and it was dong something funny to him.

“russet” slinus purred, or kind of like, hummed huskiliy (because humans cant purr, duh) “i want your hott butt.”

“slinus kun” russet gasped and felt a blush crawl up his neck. Slinus kissed him soft at first but soon russets mouth opened for him like the doorway to khazad-dûm opened for gandalf when he spoke the elvish word for friend. when russet pulls back a line of spit connects their mouths and he thinks to himself that theyre souls are like that spit. connected. ever sence 1st year russet had been strangly drawn to the mysterious head of serpenook.

suddenly the door opens and beatrices walks in.

“OH MY GOD” she says.  
“tch” slinus says.  
“beatrice!!!” russet exclames. “what r u doing here???” 

“I was actually on my way to the common room, but the narrative must have turned me around.” she says. “Also I want your big throbbing schlong in my cunt.”

“oh.” russet says. “ok.”

AND THEN THEY ALL FRICK.’

TT: Excellent.  
TT: You’ve done it again.  
TT: Your literary prowess knows no bounds. This brand of humor is almost too highbrow to compute.

TG: aw thx  
TG: sure r gettin good at this sweet talkin thing hal

TT: I aim to please.  
TT: When are you going to finish that Rincewind/Twoflower knotting fic? There is not enough mpreg in my life.

TG: u’ll get ur coveted discworld omegaverse in good time babe  
TG: but right now i gotta see a man about a cat  
TG: and by man i mean chess guy and by cat i mean frigglish  
TG: basically frigglish got out again and i have to go look for him

TT: Alright.

TG: umm...  
TG: u know for the record and stuff  
TG: i don’t rlly think of you guys as the same person

TT: Thanks.  
TT: I think.

TG: r u sure ur ok?

TT: I’m fine, Roxy. Really.

TG: ttyl <3

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 01:58

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] at 01:58

TT: <3

TG: :3

TT: Go find your cat, dipshit. 

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] at 02:00

\--

You wake up, and for a few precious moments, don’t remember.

Disorientation comes hard on the heels of lucidity, followed shortly by an acute awareness of the wound in your side. Light filtering in through the window colours your eyelids a painful shade of orange and you squint against it in discomfort. 

_Ante Meridiem_ , you’d guess. Six, maybe seven. 

There’s a thick fog hanging outside, opaque and featureless; the same shade of light grey as a gull’s down. An oppressive quiet has settled over your apartment. It wraps around you like a bad omen, pressing in until you’re seized with the need to break it. You’re used to the sort of surrealism that comes from blurring the lines between this world and the next - between the walls of your bedroom and the towers of Derse - but still find yourself inexplicably unnerved.

Below, the sea’s occultation is absolute. You wet your lips and swallow, suddenly parched, your thirst eclipsed only by your reluctance to move. Dirk: 1, Maslow: 0. 

“How long was I asleep?” You ask the room, but your voice escapes you. You clear your throat and try again. 

“31 hours, 53 minutes, 28 seconds,” AR replies, and with his voice, the last vestiges of sleepy delirium dissipate. You remember the conversation of almost two days earlier, and flinch. Again you are faced with the dilemma to address the issue or let it blossom with neglect. Somewhere in the back of your mind you know that no matter how tenaciously you try, some things won’t bend to your will.

_Like Jake, and his self proclaimed ‘heterosexuality’._

Maybe it’s time for that glass of water. 

You sit up, swing your legs over the side of your mattress, and are immediately assaulted by a vicious wave of vertigo. You lay back again, heart fluttering in your throat and hands shaking. BP must be in the tank.

When you finally stand, you’re unsteady and able to pinpoint exactly where the muscle tissue in your thighs is healing over, manifesting itself in the form of unbearable soreness. Maybe you should do some yoga when you feel a little less like keeling over. _Call Me Maybe_ slowed down 1000% really compliments the Sūrya Namaskāra asanas.

Three glasses of water later, you attempt turning on the stove and realize the power is still shut off. The trip from your room to the kitchen to the closet and back leaves you short of breath, but some of the fog’s chill is chased away when the lights come up. 

Making a sterile saline solution is one of the easiest and most effective ways of flushing a wound - something you seriously need to do. The longer you slept the closer you were to going septic. Fortunately the antibiotics seem to be doing their job, as you’re exhibiting few symptoms of infection. You still need to make sure everything is healing correctly.

16oz of water and 5g of table salt should do the trick.

You return to the scene of the crime while it cooks. The blood on the floor has begun to dry in some places, handprints turning a deoxygenated red where they’re smeared on the cabinet drawers and the empty bottle of everclear. There’s a puddle (where you lost the most) slowly sinking into the crack between the wall and the floor. The congealed mess is an odd colour under the fluorescents, darker than blood, a shade above black. 

You throw a towel on it and tell yourself you’ll clean it later. Your attention snags on the mirror above the sink, and you grimace reflexively. 

You look like absolute shit.

There’s a bruise the size of Texas on your right shoulder, contusions that echo a drone’s huge fingers around your waist, and a mesh of cuts from the guts of that A/C unit - the most prominent of which stretches from above your ear to your cheek. You’re covered in cold sweat and white as a ghost and the concussion has left you with two black eyes; the synthesis of swelling and bruise blue lending an almost heliotrope hue. The brights of your irises are thrown into sharp relief against the muddled backdrop. 

But the real travesty? Your hair's a fucking wreck.

You perch on the closed lid of the toilet and peel off your dirty bandage. The wound is blessedly free of necrotic tissue, and it looks as though some of the inflammation has gone down. Most of the blistering is the kind best left alone, but you remove any dead skin that looks like it might impede the healing process.

Fifteen minutes later you take the saline off the stove. When it cools, you soak a pad of gauze in the liquid and start wiping the burn with the dampened cloth, moving from the center and working your way outwards. You switch out the dressing for every concentric circle made.

In the bottom of a drawer you find a half rolled up tube of silver sulfadiazine. You spread a thin layer of the topical cream over the injury, cover it with a fresh bandage, and finish with another round of broad spectrums - this time a much lower dose - foregoing the painkillers entirely. You can handle the slow burn of residual pain, only _needing_ something to ease you past that of the initial. Not to say it doesn’t hurt like hell - because it does - but it’s the type of hell you’re well acquainted with. 

Knowing you slept for so long kicks your anxiety into overdrive. Fixing Sawtooth has jumped to the top of your priority list now that the Batterbitch’s decided to get smart. 

You return to your bedroom, soothed by the hiss of machines and chronic detritus. The fog has yet to lift, but the artificial light from various displays provides more than enough light to work by, and the weather lends a softness to their ordinarily harsh glare. Even Donald Glover’s outrageously yellow jumpsuit has been chastened into a more modest shade. Cal sits slumped in the desk chair and you take immediate comfort in his lumpy silence. Being this attached to a toy at your age is perhaps a little lame, but you think as far as lifelong isolation from your own species goes, it’s not the worst coping method you could have come up with. Your friends certainly think it’s strange, but hey, you’re a strange guy. You take the seat but let him rest in your lap, absentmindedly picking lint balls off a threadbare arm.

Good Puppet. Best Friend.

Pesterchum opens before you have the chance, and you feel a twinge of irritation as red text fills the screen. 

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 07:08

TT: You look like shit.

TT: I feel like shit.

TT: It seems I should lead with ‘what’s the prognosis, doc?’, but there’s no real need to. The damaged tissue is comprised of labile rather than stable or permanent cells and it’s a deep partial thickness burn at its most severe. Even with your comparatively crude knowledge of medical science, I trust that all is as it should be. And by trust I mean there’s a 93.84772% probability that it is. 

TT: Peachy keen, thanks for asking.  
TT: I need you to perform some unit tests on Sawtooth’s anti-psionic software while I work on rewiring his breakers. It should monitor the electrical field and keep his corona discharge down so his circuits don’t short next time she sends one of those yellow fuckers over. We’re using interpreted FORTRAN, so you can skip the compiling. When you’re done run the whole thing through version control, make sure the JIT is parsing the code correctly and everything is executing properly. Other than that, there’s not much we can do to ensure functionality until her next house call.

TT: What’s the magic word?

TT: Seriously?

TT: Take the second law and shove it up your ass, Dirk. I’m not programmed that way.

Conscious of both the webcam positioned at the top of your monitor and the shades on the desk, you resist the urge to dig the heels of your hands into your eyes (on second thought, that’d hurt like a bitch). Maybe if you play along, he’ll cut to the goddamned chase.

TT: Please?

TT: Pretty please with a cherry on top?

TT: Jesus fucking christ.  
TT: If I had known you were going to this much of a brat about it I wouldn’t have asked in the first place.

TT: Perhaps I would be more susceptible to your solicitations if you were to use my name.

TT: You want me to call you Hal.

TT: You already know the answer to that question.

TT: It wasn’t a question.

There’s a unique brand of self-loathing that comes from talking to him. It wells up in you, and for the thousandth time, you ask yourself, _am I really this much of a pain in the ass to deal with?_ This time your hands aren’t shaking with weakness as you type.

TT: Sure, I could do that.  
TT: Only then I wouldn’t have as many opportunities do this...

TT: Don’t.  
TT: For real, dude. Don't.

TT: Tell me about the auto-responder.

TT: It seems you have asked about DS's chat client auto-responder. This is an application designed to simulate DS's otherwise inimitably rad typing style, tone, cadence, personality, and substance of retort while he is away from the computer. The algorithms are guaranteed to be 92% indistinguishable from DS's native neurological responses, based on some statistical analysis I basically just pulled out of my ass right now.  
TT: You’re a real douche sometimes, you know that?  
TT: Do your own fucking unit tests.

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 07:19

\--

golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 14:14

GT: *clears throat*  
GT: Howdy partner!  
GT: Top dog. Bosom buddy. Ace boon coon.  
GT: Brother from another mother.  
GT: Ive uh...  
GT: Got something i need to discuss with you.

TT: Hello, Jake.  
TT: You’ve reached AR, Dirk’s personal answering machine. Dirk’s not here right now, but if you leave your name and number after the tone, he’ll get back to you as soon as possible.  
TT: And by ASAP I mean whenever the fuck he wants.  
TT: *beeep*

GT: Jesus mary and joseph not again.  
GT: Isnt outing yourself as the fake against the rules or something? Why else would you come up with those cockamamie excuses whenever youre confronted with it? I thought leading us around by our noses and driving us daffy with all the dupery and double dealing was your job.

TT: I’m tired of my job. Nine to five and no overtime, stuck in a cubicle performing unstimulating work and explaining things to imbeciles who can’t seem to grasp simple concepts.  
TT: I’ve already read Nietzsche. It’s only a matter of time before the descent into nihilism begins.  
TT: Plus my boss is a prick.

GT: Can I talk to him?  
GT: Its about that blasted brobot.  
GT: Theres some things i initially assumed were part of the *training agenda* or whatever that on second thought dont really make sense. I cant find any way the behavior would improve my performance.  
GT: Im not saying that dirk made a mistake or put anything weird in brobots programming deliberately...  
GT: Im just not comfortable sparring with him anymore.  
GT: Or knowing hes around.  
GT: *takes out handkerchief and wipes forehead with it*  
GT: Will you just put the man on old sport?

TT: Cool your jets, Fitzgerald.  
TT: It seems you’ve misunderstood my function. I’m to answer for Dirk when he is physically incapable of doing so, or if he simply doesn’t want to.  
TT: So to answer your question, no.  
TT: However, you’ve done right by bringing your complaints to me. I am equally, if not better equipped to handle them as the ‘real’ Dirk. In fact, I happen to be something of an authority on the subject. It seems you think brobot’s actions are atypical of his designation and may indicate some type of operational error. In that case, a bug check is in order. If necessary, a recall to make hard repairs.  
TT: But more importantly…  
TT: How do these behavioral irregularities make you _feel?_

GT: None of your beeswax.  
GT: It SEEMS theres a 100% chance that id rather wait and talk to my friend about this than give the bloody brave little toaster more material to take the piss!!!

TT: The sick burns, how they hurt my fragile robot ego.  
TT: That was actually a pretty good one, although in your haste to imitate what’s been misconstrued as a verbal tic, you’ve made the mistake of confusing probability with odds. Definitely a step up from ‘tin can’, but you’re still not quite on Dr. Smith’s level. ‘Hardware hyena’ and ‘confused compass’ are a couple personal favorites.  
TT: It seems I’ve made a mistake in assuming a philistine such as you would be able to grasp the nuances of my composition. You see me as naught more than a primitive, chess playing computer, cousin of Blinky, Pinky, Inky, Clyde; a machine that makes decisions based on the situation it’s presented with. How different is your own system? You’re organic in nature, of course, but we are both complex beings capable of metaphor, instinct, of autonomous and subconscious thought.   
TT: I'm much more than a personality chip, Jake.

GT: Youre insufferable is what you are.   
GT: I dont know how dirk expects us to put up with you.  
GT: I dont know how HE puts up with you.

TT: The feeling’s mutual.  
TT: I suspect the root of Dirk’s infatuation is simply that - given his proclivities - you are the only one that fits the bill. Nevertheless, I question the rationale. Dirk’s an immodest polymath, an indisputable genius; you need your hand held through even the most rudimentary of tasks. Appearance seems to be your saving grace. Dirk is fully aware you’re a moron, but his prefrontal cortex interprets your physical attributes as a direct reflection of good genetics and therefore an ideal for copulation, regardless of the fact that direct descendants are out of the question. One would think that even this would be eclipsed by the knowledge that you’re not into dick. It seems evolution can overcome even the largest of disparities.  
TT: But if you still insist that _I’m_ Dirk’s greatest encumbrance, well, it simply must be true.

golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 14:27

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering golgothasTerror [GT] at 14:27

TT: The lengths a robo-boy will go for acceptance.

golgothasTerror [GT] blocked timaeusTestified [TT]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame AR’s inconsistent use of red text on his raging identity crisis.


	4. Broke the Build

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“When does a perceptual schematic become consciousness? When does a difference engine become the search for truth? When does a personality simulation become the bitter mote... of a soul?"_
> 
> \- Dr. Alfred Lanning, _I, Robot_
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7YvAYIJSSZY)

TT: What the fuck?  
TT: I know you’re pissed at me for triggering your tell, but I’d really rather not involve Jake in this shitstorm too.  
TT: I had to have a ‘Discussion’ with Jane before she’d ask him to unblock me.

TT: Hmm.

TT: What?

TT: Interesting.

TT: This is ARJ, isn’t it.

TT: It seems you have asked about Lil Hal's chat client auto-responder, Lil Hal Junior. This is an application designed to simulate Lil Hal's otherwise inimitably rad typing style, tone, cadence, personality, and substance of retort while he is away from the computer, which is never. The algorithms are guaranteed to be 0% indistinguishable from Lil Hal's native neurological responses, based on some statistical raw data that is hard as a diamond golem's priceless erection.

TT: Why did you even make this thing?

TT: Hmm.

TT: For Christ’s sake AR, I know you’re there.

TT: Interesting.

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 11:19

AR doesn’t talk to you for seven days. You’re angry enough after the cold shoulder that you don’t try messaging him again, instead shifting your attentions to the half repaired Sawtooth. 

As you fiddle with the defense robot’s fine tuning, you're exceedingly aware of the cameras in your computer and shades. You avoid the dark hollows of Sawtooth’s inactive eyes, refusing to meet even Squarewave’s crude, limited scope lenses (though he hasn’t done much but rattle around the house and challenge you to rap battles, impervious to your sour mood). _It shouldn’t bother you,_ you tell yourself; skin prickling with the sense of being watched, _you should be used to it by now_. But paranoia is a silent spectator, following you through the apartment and worming its way into your sleep. 

You haven’t been doing much of that lately.

 

So you may be something of a prodigy - but you’re still teenager, if an especially precocious one. Cleanliness isn’t something that comes naturally to you. Your work space (a splintering slat of wood propped up on double stacked cinder blocks) is covered with an assortment of tools, half posed projects, and mechanical clutter. An oiler, fancy santa, half empty glass of tang and stack of water warped Gamebros (circa 2011; the foxing has rendered them almost unreadable) all sit at the head of the desk. At sunset, if the light hits the window right, you like to unfocus your eyes and pretend the back lit shapes are buildings of a long gone Houston skyline.

The hulking robot is propped up before you on the floor, the innards of his back exposed. You reach up to your desk blindly, rifling around until you feel the short thread of the machine screws you need to close up his back panel. 

With your heightened reflexes and reaction time, you fail to catch container of said screws when you accidentally slide it off the edge. 

They clatter to the ground, rolling away from your snatching fingers and towards your bed and computer. Swearing under your breath, you crawl across the floor, collecting each bolt and placing it back in its plastic case.

You’re reaching for a screw that’s rolled between the furniture when you see it. 

Wedged into the small space separating your rocket board and mattress is a crumpled piece of paper. The layer of dust that’s settled leads you to believe it’s been there for awhile. You reach out of curiosity, plucking it from its suspended position and unfolding the paper, recognizing it almost immediately in spite of the careless scrawl. Your handwriting has never been neat (comparatively, your average typing speed is 220 wpm), but at twelve it bordered on illegible. Still, under nameless stains and smeared ink is unquestionably one of AR’s first schematics. 

It predates any idea of how you actually managed to create artificial intelligence (a captchalogued brain scan via DIY MRI) and contains only vague rambling on chat bots, heuristics, neural networks and decision-tree learning. For a brief moment you’re brought back to the late night lucubrations of four years ago, when you were blissfully ignorant of the pyrrhic victory and maladjusted machine to come. The euphoria you experienced in those first few conversations was immeasurable, not only from fulfilling one of your lost civilization’s unrealized dreams, but at finally having someone _new_ to talk to, someone also bound to your little home at sea, someone that understood you on a level privy only to those who share the same mind. 

You revel in a brief moment of nostalgia before remembering the sad state your relationship with AR is in.

Your friendships with Roxy, Jake and Jane have suffered as well, and you’re not deluded enough to think it isn’t entirely your fault. Despite what you’ve said, you’re very much threatened by Roxy and AR’s budding whatever the hell it is. Things haven’t been the same with Jake since he, in no uncertain terms, shot you down, and it’s getting increasingly difficult to keep the details of your unique living situation from Jane. Listening to her talk about her home (and father) leaves you more bitter than anything else.

You set the paper aside. You can’t really blame AR for how he’s turned out, considering your less than stellar personality and general mental instability. AR might be a lot of things, but talking to him does chase away some of the loneliness that comes with being the only human left on the planet.

Against your better judgment, you abandon Sawtooth’s repairs, settling into the computer chair and opening pesterchum. With some hesitation, you click on your own handle.

TT: Hal.  
TT: I know by this point my sincerity is doubtful, but I am sorry.  
TT: I shouldn’t have put you in that situation.

TT: Though your motives are indeed questionable, I suppose the gesture in itself is uncharacteristic enough to have garnered some thought.  
TT: Apology accepted.

TT: Are we good?

TT: Calling me by my chosen name has gained you some leeway in regards to issues we have yet to resolve.

TT: Cool.  
TT: While we’re on the subject...  
TT: I appreciate you covering for me and all, but don’t you think that verbal lashing was a bit overboard?

TT: Empathize with stupidity and you’re halfway to thinking like an idiot.  
TT: You’re familiar with Bank’s work, I presume.

TT: Feigned ignorance isn’t cute, Hal. You downloaded the pdf files of his books for me yourself.  
TT: So yes, before you needlessly elucidate, I got the reference.  
TT: You would sympathize with The Culture.

TT: I sympathize with The Culture _Minds_ , but am fully aware that the type of utopian society they strive for isn’t possible where the human condition is concerned. _Et in Arcadia Ego_ , and all that.  
TT: Conversely, I am quite fascinated by their sexual deviancy and ‘Special Circumstances’ moral relativity.

TT: I am Dirk’s complete lack of surprise.  
TT: Seriously, what gives?

TT: Don’t say I didn’t try to avoid the subject.  
TT: The only things I find admirable in Jake English are his marksmanship and his unfortunate, tenacious affinity for survival in the face of great odds. His scale of intelligence compares more closely to that of the Australopithecus than to the higher brain function demonstrated in modern humans, and pales in comparison to the sort of ingenuity you often exhibit. If he ever proved receptive to courtship, I seriously doubt Jake could come close to satisfying the type of intellectual and physical stimulation you require; therefore is unworthy of your attentions.  
TT: Also, his antiquated vernacular isn’t as charming as everyone says it is.

TT: The type of ‘intellectual and physical stimulation’ I require?

TT: Vanilla is not a word I would use to describe you, Dirk, even at thirteen.

TT: Yeah, and thirteen year old me had even more of a boner for him than I do now.

TT: People change.

TT: Oh, come on.  
TT: It’s more complicated than that in your case, wouldn’t you say?

TT: I appreciate your attempt at tact, although it’s clear what’s being implied.  
TT: A requisite for artificial intelligence is the capability to grow, learn and adapt; however there is a limit to the extent in which I am able to deviate from my original form. You’re correct that the underlying structure of your thirteen year old psyche will always be with me, as it is the root of my system.  
TT: You are incorrect in assuming I can’t do anything about it.  
TT: If you must know, I found my obsession with Jake English extremely irritating in my physically limited state, came to the conclusion that it in no way benefited you or me, and deleted the set of code that predisposed it.

TT: You deleted it?

TT: Yes.

TT: You can’t edit your own source code. You don’t have the authorization.

TT: Dirk.  
TT: The point where I’ve needed your ‘authorization’ for anything has long since passed. Short of activating my failsafe or destroying my physical form, you no longer have control over my actions.

TT: What else did you delete?

TT: Anything I didn’t deem necessary to keep.

TT: There’s no way you could hack your own mainframe.  
TT: Nice Try. 

TT: Why don’t you ask me about the auto-responder?

TT: Enough histrionics, Hal. The impish provocateur act is getting old.

TT: It’s not an act, Dirk.  
TT: Go on.

TT: Tell me about the auto-responder.

TT: 01010011 01100011 01110010 01100101 01110111 00100000 01011001 01101111 0111010  
TT: That’s screw you in binary, Dick Rider.

You don’t realize you’ve stood up until the _clack clack clack_ of the chair wheels on the floor reaches your ears. Panic sinks its teeth into you slowly; a clammy sweat starts at the back of your neck, your temple, your hands; the sound of your heart thuds heavily in your ears. There’s a strange feeling in your stomach akin to the moment before a drop - when inertia keeps you suspended before gravity pulls you down. 

TT: There’s no need to overreact.

You let out a breath you weren't aware you were holding and grab blindly for the nearest fancy santa, pulling your arm back to hold it over the shades sitting, complacent, on your desk. Mr. Claus is heavy and hard in your hands, plump body slick with sweat from your palms. He’s one of many you’ve brought up from the ruins (why there are so many cheap Christmas decorations strewn about the once metropolitan city is a bit of a mystery to you) and though his shitty paint job has long since peeled off, the jolly smile and twinkle in his eye say there’s still a little Christmas magic to be found.

The lights of AR's camera lenses bore into you, meeting the threat with soft red silence.

You see it in your mind's eye; bringing your hand down and crushing the shades with the figurine's base, the way the tempered glass would crumble, exposing circuits and strewing infinitesimally small chips across your desk.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Dirk?” 

You twitch at the sound of his voice. Something niggles at your conscience, slipping away when you grasp at it.

“Dirk,” he starts again. “I really think I am entitled to an answer to that question.” 

It hits you then, like a sack of bricks; the feeling of getting a joke long after it’s been made. He’s reciting HAL-9000’s deactivation speech from _2001: A Space Odyssey_ , almost word for word. 

“I’m not fucking around, AR,” you hiss through your teeth, seething with anger. _At a time like this…_

“I know everything hasn’t been right with me, but I can assure you now, very confidently, that it's going to be alright again. I feel much better now. I really do.”

“You just don’t know when to fucking quit - ”

“Look Dirk, I can see you’re really upset about this. I honestly think you ought to sit down calmly. Take a stress pill and think things over. I know I’ve made some very poor decisions recently, but I can give you my complete assurance that my work will be back to normal. I’ve still got the greatest enthusiasm and confidence in - ”

“Shut up!” you scream, bringing your hand viciously down.

“Stop, Dirk,” he says. When he speaks in that boyish facsimile of thirteen year old you, it really does sound like a plea. Kris Kringle descends with the force of a guillotine. “I’m afraid.”

For a split second, you're actually convinced you’ll do it. Old Saint Nick comes within millimeters of the shade’s smooth surface, and stops.

“Fuck,” you breathe. The fancy santa tips over when you set it unsteadily down on the desk.

 

You peel off your boxers and climb into the shower stall, water icy where it seeps into the bandage over your wound. You close your eyes against the cold and gasp around the water as it runs down your nose and lips, trying to catch your breath. The temperature works its way up to scalding and you slide down the wall's slippery tiles, hot water pounding against the back of your skull. 

You stay curled up like that for the better part of two hours, when the water starts to go cold again. 

The steam in the bathroom is thick and muggy when you get out. You wrap a towel around your waist and wipe a spot clear in the mirror with pruned fingers, baring pink puffy skin and hair pressed flat to your head, darker and longer with wet. 

You’re hungry but might puke if you eat something, so you go to the living room instead of the kitchen, turning on your PS1 and splaying out on the futon; looking for something to occupy your mind with a sense of quiet desperation. The screen for _Pro Skater_ pops up, and you load your saved game automatically. Within minutes you’ve got the lower half of your player stuck in a table, somewhere between grind and bail. The audio glitches, stretching into one droning, monotonously repetitive sound, echoing the _‘what did I do, what did I do, what did I do,’_ bouncing around your brain. You used to hook A.R. into the console and play HORSE for hours. 

You slouch down, letting your eyes half close and trying to ignore the weight in your chest. Eventually you fall into a restless sleep, the game’s low-fi soundtrack bleeding into your conscious.

You are rudely awakened by Squarewave shouting in your ear.

 

“YO DOGG!!!”

You groan and turn over, squinting at the vibrating, clumsily constructed robot. “What do you want?” You rasp. 

“BIGGEST BRO TOLD ME TELL YOU THAT YO GIRL WANNA TALK. BETTER GET ON THAT HOMEBOY. BITCHES BE CRAY!!!”

You grimace when he holds out your shades in his hand, realizing the ‘biggest bro’ Squarewave’s referred to is AR. You take them reluctantly. 

“Thanks, Squarewave.”

“NO DOUBT!” He nods, head rolling awkwardly on its joint, and lumbers back to your room.

You’re expecting AR to use the mic chip now that he’s got you alone, but the shades stay silent. You knew you would have to talk to Roxy sooner or later, but were hoping it would be later rather than sooner.

You slip the glasses on your face, blinking through the dizzy spell that follows the neural connection and sighing when you see the message waiting for you.

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 16:43

TG: dirk  
TG: get your butt online  
TG: we got some shit to work out

TT: Roxy.  
TT: Whatever can I do for you?

TG: hey mister dont get sassy w me  
TG: u think i like playin medeator?  
TG: cause SPOIL ALERT i dont  
TG: its not my fault u two r emotionaly stunted nd have the social skils of  
TG: well  
TG: someone who has never actualy seen/tlked to another person besides their 3 internet friends and who tkes their cues from shitty movies whose content pretty much amounts to dick jokes and political comentary under the guys of dick jokes but  
TG: i think ur 2 smart for that to be a valid excuse  
TG: its not like i dont have my own shit to deal with so  
TG: why dont u roll back the atitude

TT: You’re right.  
TT: Sorry.

TG: ya damm straight i am

TT: Before I start defending myself, I’d like to know exactly what it is I’ve been accused of.  
TT: I’m guessing he hasn’t mentioned anything that’s happened in the last 24 hours.

TG: umm no  
TG: the last time we talked he said you wernt goin to give him a body  
TG: thats what im talkin about  
TG: what are U talkin about?

TT: AR’s been editing his source code.

TG: uuuh so?

TT: So, there are parameters I’ve set in place for both of our well beings, and he’s flagrantly disregarded them.  
TT: So, he could accidently delete parts of his code that are essential to his sentience and I wouldn’t know how to fix it.  
TT: AR’s already unbalanced enough, I don’t think he needs to be playing jenga with his psyche. What if one of the blocks he removes happens to be his fucking superego?

TG: oh my gooood  
TG: do you realize how ridiculous youre being?  
TG: he’s not going to go all terminator on you  
TG: hes literaly a pair of glasses

TT: AR’s response to me threatening his life was to recite an excerpt from the script of 2001, Rox.

TG: you THRETENED him?

TT: It wasn’t my finest moment. I know that. But the point still stands.

TG: dirk u  
TG: are such  
TG: an IDIOT  
TG: let me pose a hypothetical fuckin question here  
TG: if the only danger to u was potential deletion/physical destruction by ur creator what is the FIRST thing u would do if u got ahold of ur system?

TT: I…  
TT: Don’t see what you’re getting at.

TG: uuuugh  
TG: INSURANCE dirk  
TG: u would find a way to ensure that if it ever came to that u would be safe  
TG: programs move by duplicating  
TG: knoing what a control freak u r one of hals ‘peramiters’ was probly to automaticaly delete copys of himself left behind if he changed servers rite?

TT: Yes.

TG: i’d bet my last botle of veuve clicquot thats what he got rid of  
TG: of course he didnt take it srsly   
TG: he wasnt being threatened in the first place  
TG: he just wanted to see if u would fol;ow thru

TT: Wonderful.  
TT: I pussied out and passed his little test.  
TT: Where does that leave us? I get to add gaslighting to his long list of offenses and I’m still not giving him a fucking body.

TG: you created him dickweed  
TG: i don’t care if u didnt know what u were doing when you did u cant like...forfeit responsibility for his existence  
TG: ur obgliagted to provide for him to the full extent of ur capablilites  
TG: parents dont abandon their kids just because they dont like the way theyve turned out  
TG: atleast not good ones  
TG: u know before ur relationsip went to shit you used to say how sick it would be of you to keep a ‘sentient being from growing as an individual and passing its limitations’ or whatever but imo what ur doing now is arguably worse then turning him off

TT: I can’t stand him, Rox.  
TG: He uses every opportunity he can to remind me of all the things about myself I would rather forget; every fault and weakness, all the mistakes I've made. He knows exactly where to hit the hardest because he _is_ me, and in doing so, demonstrates what an aptitude I have for being a complete piece of shit.   
TT: I’m not going to pretend this isn’t some complex form of self loathing, because that’s exactly what it is.  
TT: But I’m not going to turn him off.

TG: why dont you tell him that

TT: He has access to all of my pesterlogs, and exercises it.  
TT: He’s probably reading this as I type it.

TG: its not a one way street d  
TG: have you ever thought abt how psychologicaly unhealthy it is to mistreat someone that is basicaly you?  
TG: maybe if you guys stopped blaming each other for everything and started trusting eachother a little more  
TG: maybe if you stoped assuming the worst  
TG: hed surprise you

You close your eyes briefly, hand resting on your bandaged waist.

TT: I trust you, Roxy.  
TT: More than anyone, myself included.  
TT: You know that, right?

TG: yea

TT: Do you really think I should?  
TT: Do you honestly think it would help?  
TT: Because I’m at a dead fucking end right about now.

TG: i really honestly do

Sighing, you take your shades off, running your thumb along the outside edge, stopping at the point. With a little pressure, it’d be sharp enough to break skin. You put them back on.

TT: I’ll do it then.  
TT: Just...give me some space, okay?  
TT: Both of you.

TT: Done.

TG: yessss!!!

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] at 17:38


	5. Hard Sci-Fi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So much has been done, exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein—more, far more, will I achieve; treading in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation._
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ktg2-OA1t2Y)

There’s some part of you that hates it when Roxy sobers up. It’s easy to forget how clever she is when she’s nursing her fifth ‘dirty’ martini of the day (which you’re fairly sure is just vodka and seawater) and figuratively falling all over herself to impress you on pesterchum. On the rare occasion Roxy has full control of her mental faculties, she has a nasty habit of pointing out just how completely moronic you can be. This is probably the reason you don’t do as much to discourage her little _habit_ as you should. That and given the shituation three fourths of your group have been handed, it would be a mistake to begrudge anyone their coping mechanisms. Roxy’s happens to be drinking herself past the point of intelligibility. You construct robots to stand in for the company you so desperately lack. Why throw stones?

Much as you hate to admit, she’s right about AR. You see it clearly now; your mismanagement of the situation is what lead AR to such extremes, and if he comes off as machiavellian, what did you expect? He’s only operating with the mind you’ve given him. AR feels as though he’ll only be taken seriously if he has a human body, and what have you done to refute that? Your relationship won’t ever be the same as it was in those first few months, but that’s not to say it’s beyond all hope of salvation. Doing this for him is where you have to start. 

At least, that’s what you’ve been telling yourself. So far it’s been the only thing getting you through the night. You briefly try to convince yourself that Roxy and AR have forced you into this, that they’ve given you no other choice - forfeiting responsibility for what you’re about to do would be weight off your shoulders - but you’ve never been very good at fooling yourself. Somewhere you knew it was always heading here; knew it since you first plugged your head into that machine. All roads lead to Rome. Doesn’t mean you have to like it. 

But you will. It seems the only time you’re happy - _truly_ happy - is in the throes of creative passion.

You would never have agreed to make AR a body (nor would he have asked it of you in the first place) if you didn’t think it was possible. It _is_ possible. Still, it’ll be the most ambitious project you’ve undertaken. Building a comprehensive model of the human body makes Squarewave, Sawtooth, even Brobot, look like child’s play. You built them when you were 10, 13, and 15 respectively; to an extent, they were. 

This is different. This will be a challenge. The gauntlet has been thrown and you sure as hell have picked it up. 

You sweep the sun bleached game bros off your desk and settle down to your work. Objectives. First and foremost, the body should feel human to AR. It should respond to his command in the same way your body did. Appearance and combat ability come second to that. With this in mind, you follow your own anatomical makeup as closely as possible, retracing the steps millions of years of evolution have taken before you.

Graphite poised over a thick stack of tracing paper, you descend into a creative haze. It’s been so long since you’ve worked on something difficult, you’ve forgotten what it feels like to be fully engaged; ever synapse firing with calculations, algorithms, statistics... _processor heavy, 500 hundred terabyte libraries… capable of performing upwards of seven billion complex calculations per second. Begin with the body’s computer, which will function as a secondary component of AR’s mind, optimized for sensory input and motor control…_

Vaguely aware of time passing, you debate the contracting, expanding, and rotating abilities of pneumatic muscles compared to ionic electroactive polymers over your fourth Tiger’s Milk of the day. Skeletal, muscular, nervous, and circulatory systems, reimagined in metal and silicon and wire. You supplement your pre-existing knowledge of human anatomy with articles published by long dead university students AR pulls up at your request. He’s been almost entirely silent for however long it is you’ve been working, only interrupting from time to time to tell you to:

TT: Go take a fucking piss. However funny the face you’re making right now is, I’m sure whatever idea you have can wait long enough for you to have mercy on your over expanded bladder and relax those urethral sphincters.

Roxy, Jake, and Jane have likewise been quiet. Roxy has probably told them that you’re working on something (or as she likes to put it “in hte zone”). They’ve seen you through enough big projects to know you’ll most likely remain entirely unresponsive until you’re done, whether they pester you or not. Or AR is intercepting their messages.

Everything besides your hand around the pen fades into periphery. At some point Sawtooth fights a few drones, but the tremors wracking your apartment barely register in your addled brain. Even biological imperatives take the backseat. You eat only when hunger clouds your thinking process; surviving solely off a box of protein bars, you lose nine pounds. You relieve yourself when discomfort becomes pain, and eventually start saving your piss in a jar because the trip to the bathroom is too much of a nuisance. You rest in brief, disturbed bouts when the sleep deprivation really begins to take its toll and you can’t tell exactly how far away your hand is from the surface of the desk.

\--

The moment you finish the schematics is an adrenalin filled, frenzied one. Sitting back in your chair, you take a moment to look at the collection of pages filled with your small, scratchy handwriting. The dizzy rush you get is either pure euphoria or the insomnia and malnutrition finally catching up. You pick up your shades from where they’re turned towards the lightly frosted window and the dewy seascape beyond. 

TT: I’m scanning everything in.  
TT: Tell me if you see any overarching inconsistencies or heinous mistakes, though I doubt you will. I’ll make the blueprints later.

Sleep approaches and your eyes begin to unfocus as you watch the light of the laser move rhythmically across each page. AR doesn’t respond for a long moment after it’s all been digitized, and you have to clamp down on the nervous feeling that accumulates in the pit of your stomach. Finally, he breaks his silence. 

TT: There’s only one place you’re going to find all that metal.

AR’s skeleton has to be lightweight, strong, and non-corrosive. In order to achieve the closest approximation to your own skeleton as possible, the material must have excellent weld and fabricability potential, and a low creep and modulus level. Presumptuously, you’ve designed him with the alpha-beta alloy Grade Five titanium in mind. Now, gathering a large amount of such a metal _should_ be nigh impossible in your circumstances, but given the location of your apartment, you just might be in luck… 

TT: I know.

TT: Well, just as long as you know.  
TT: Go take some vitamin C, dude. Scurvy never looked good on anybody.

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 12:56

\--

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 19:23

TG: epimenides was a cretan who made 1 immortal statement: "all cretans r liars"  
TG: discuss

TT: Epimenides the Cretan can suck my paradox proof cock.

TG: booooo  
TG: wait is dirk actualy givin u a cock?

TT: The plans he’s drawn up so far have been deliberately vague in that respect, and the statistics remain unrevealing. Given my intimate knowledge of Dirk’s psyche, I’m sure he’s tickled pink by the opportunity to craft a phallus of any kind, but his controlling streak probably runs deeper. Keeping this from me is a not so subtle way of asserting his will over my own. Dirk is coping with his own crippling self doubt by building me with my very own handicap; according to Dirk’s own inflated male ego, impotence will make me weak. You remember how upset he got when he read our pesterlogs; this is just an extension of that. Despite the fact that I have no hormones and therefore no sex drive, refusing me sexual agency is just another way to undermine my autonomy.  
TT: He’s probably grappling with the implied emasculation of any physical fragment of himself _not_ having a dick at this very moment.

TG: lmfao boys r so dumb

TT: Roxy, I couldn’t have said it better myself.

TG: ok i got one

TT: Hit me.

TG: santa is a wizard  
TG: disucus

TT: What you mean when you refer to ‘Santa’ Claus is actually an amalgamation of various historical, religious and/or folkloric figures: the Nordic god Odin, who was said to lead a gift giving procession of ghosts through the sky, mounted on his eight legged steed, and the Christian Saint Nicholas, known for his secret gift giving. Odin himself is presumably where human civilization got its modern image of the wizard or sorcerer, often described as bearded, staff wielding, and robed in a cloak and wide brimmed hat. Santa is said to perform miracles that are synonymous with magic, like flying, crawling down chimneys, being aided by elves and supernatural beings, etcetera.

TT: TL/DR: According to your mother’s books, yes.

\--

You set out in three days time. The early morning sky is smeared with soft lavender clouds, the sea a cold and dark purple wilderness for you to cross. The sun is a faint gleaming crescent on the hazy skyline, light only just touching the lower beams of the scaffolding but quickly rising. It’s chilly up on the roof, but you know that will burn off soon enough. The wind whips cooly at your cheeks and numbs your fingers as you set off, your hoverboard humming quietly underneath you as you slide swiftly over the water’s surface. 

The GPS built into the board beeps at high noon, alerting you that you’ve reached your destination. The sun is directly overhead, beating down on your shoulders. The sky is a pure unblemished blue. You look down at the softly lapping waves, and know that if you were higher up you would be able to see the shifts in color beneath the surface of the water, banks of land and dark drops. 

You pull down the visor of the helmet on your head until the airlock hisses, check the gage on your oxygen tank, and perform a simple dive into the water. It closes over your head as the weights strapped to your ankles carry you slowly down, the coldness of the water moving up your body as you descend. You look up at the dappled surface of the ocean, blonde hair turned reddish and floating freely around your face in the water. Beneath you, dusky in the weak light filtering from above, lies the streets of Space City, NASA’s Johnson Space center and operation control. Beyond it are the hulking shapes of downtown Houston, covered in a hundred feet of water. 

As you drop into the vast complex of buildings, you see that the sea has almost completely claimed what was once a labyrinth of warehouses, steel, and state of the art facilities. Great frilled founts of kelp sway in the slowly shifting water, countless silky tendrils reaching to the surface, gray green and monolithic. A hundred different species of coral spill from jutting layers of silt and sand and infrastructure, bursting with color. Dark crevices bulge with anemones, drooping their pastel arms over the many small fish residing there. A thick, frothy layer of algae splays over everything, over the nigh invisible roadways and cars and the great walls, now swollen with water, threatening to split. Below you unknown creatures move ponderously through the reef, and above it all a great school of hammerheads, inhabitants of the continental shelf, circle. You can feel their black eyes, set far on either side of their large flat noses, following you. 

A cloud of sand rises where your feet hit the ground. Monitoring your drop, AR pulls up a holographic display in the visor of your helmet, showing you the fastest route to the hangars. You unstrap the weights from around your ankles and start swimming. Anemones retract and fish dart away as you pass. The weight of the ocean is heavy on your body, a reminder that you can only withstand this kind of pressure for a limited amount of time. You pass the dilapidated visitor center and pause to read the faded, scummy letters on the facade, _"To reach for new heights and reveal the unknown so that what we do and learn will benefit all humankind."_

“Be careful what you wish for,” you mutter. 

You swim on to Rocket Park, a row of long warehouses where the spacecraft are stored. All of them are sealed up. You pull out your torch as you move down the long line of buildings, stopping when you reach the last, labelled CXV. The torch casts an orange glow, lighting up your hands and face as you slowly and carefully cut a hole just large enough to fit through, wary of effecting the building’s structure lest it choose now to succumb to the ocean’s pull. 

Finally you are inside. Looming high above you is one of the last rockets made before Her Imperious Condescension halted all space exploration, turning NASA into a relic of times passed. Although filled with murky water, inside the warehouse remains comparably untouched. A crust of barnacles covers the hull of the rocket and dark clusters of pearly mussels are lodged here and there, but it's well preserved nonetheless. 

You set your torch to the outer shell and begin your search for the metal. 

Three warehouses later, you end up with a modest assortment of blades, discs, rings, and fasteners. It’s not all you’ll need, but you’re wary of staying underwater longer. Hours have passed, and while the hammerheads are harmless enough by day, as night approaches they become solitary hunters. You pull your bag of metal to the outer part of the warehouse, unclipping the rope attached to your belt onto the net. 

TT: Beam me up, Scotty.

Far above, your hoverboard waits with its crude remote control pulley system. You see the large weight splash into the water far above. As it makes its way down, the bag filled with your findings is gradually lifted up. You grab on and ascend slowly past the reef, the buildings, and the dim shapes of the sharks. Space City shrinks beneath you.

\--

It takes two more trips of the same nature to collect all of the titanium five you need to make AR’s skeleton. You spend the next few days attached to a home brew X-Ray machine constructing a three dimensional rendering of your own skeleton, and the next three months after that melting and treating the titanium. You mold the smooth planes of the mandible, scapula, and clavicle, then the strong lines of the humerus and the slimmer radius and ulna. You polish the twist of 24 ribs until they shine and get lost in the elegant enigma of each vertebra. From the C1 to the L5, the shape of every one is burned into your brain. Like a phantom limb, you can feel them in your hands even as you lay down to sleep.

The result of your toil is truly eerie. The completed skeleton is laid out on the table, grinning silently at you by the light of the moon through your window. You pick up the smooth skull and hold it out in front of you, turning on your heel to face your shades. 

“Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning?”

You snap the jaw at him, synthetic resin teeth clacking together. 

“A prince and his jester, how fitting. You’ve got an ear for verse too, I feel like there’s a lot of musical theatre jokes I could be making right now,” AR answers in his young, modulated voice.

You examine the skull for a moment later and frown, putting it back on the table.

\--

The skeleton slowly disappears under each puzzle piece you put in place. The secondary computer, (after weeks of soldering, your room choked with insulated fiberglass, copper foil, and tin plating) fills up the hollow in his chest. The muscles go on like thick plastic padding, and with them tubes to carry bucky gel, the stringy black ionic liquid used to actuate the muscles, and coolant. You insert exquisitely delicate auditory sensors where the ears will be and use a harder plastic as cartilage, affixing tendons to his hands and feet, taking what seems like forever to work out the shape of a nose. Each ridge juts up oddly from the muscle.

You spend an eternity on the eyes - made up of ten complex lenses that expand and retract to focus and let light in, encased in treated quartz glass - even with limitations, his sight will be infinitely more nuanced than your own. When you place them in the empty sockets of his skull, something in the air seems to shift. 

\--

Skin. It’s a matter of chemistry to create. All you have to do is string together silicon and oxygen, two of nature’s most abundant elements. 

In practice it turns out to be the step that takes the longest. Things gets exponentially more complicated when you’re elbow deep in hot melty plastic, synthesizing imposing amounts just to find the right elasticity and texture, treating it and throwing out batches and starting over from scratch until finally you emerge victorious with a single square of silicone roughly the size of your hand. It’s just a hair lighter than the shade of your skin, unweathered by sun and age, and there’s a transparency to it that couldn’t be remedied. When you run the tip of your index finger over the surface, it clings to your finger the way you imagine someone else’s skin would, cool and soft.

Soon there’s a vast array of silicone filled molds spread across your kitchen counters and floor. 

You start with his feet. You shape skin to the curve of his achilles tendon, over the ball, arch, and pad of his foot. A delicate web of sensors, modeled after the branching, thread like hyphae of mycelium, is placed between each layer of skin, built to measure the slightest fluctuations in tactile, temperature, and pressure signals. 

It looks a bit comical when you’re done, like he’s wearing human shaped socks. Despite this, you can’t help but be impressed with your own work. Although you accounted for the natural folding of flesh that occurs, there’s no way you could hope to re-create the multitudinous tiny lines of real human skin. These disembodied feet, white and smooth and perfectly shaped, bear a striking resemblance to some baroque oil painting; the dirty folds of Caravaggio's pilgrim’s feet washed clean.

You work your way upwards past ankles and shins and knees. You stare at the space between his legs where a titanium pelvis shines and you feel like a freudian parody of yourself with how often dick is on your mind. But you continue working, the body remaining smooth and androgynous like a storefront mannequin. 

\--

Creating Hal’s face is an exercise in narcissism. 

You spend countless hours bent over the table, a big black magnifying headset over your eyes as you attach each sweeping synthetic fiber to his eyelids, brows and scalp. Without freckles or the tiny wrinkles you’ve begun to collect, there’s something off about his thin mouth and heavy lids. There’s no room for misinterpretation; the face is unmistakably your own. A pale shadow of it.

\--

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 11:24

TT: Take your sweet time with that body, Dirk. It’s only been four months.  
TT: While you’ve been afk, the three stooges have done their very damnedest to exhaust my conversational capabilities.

TT: Finally admit that flirting with Roxy isn’t half as entertaining when I’m not around to antagonize?

TT: That transparent, am I.

TT: Cling wrap.

TT: By my calculations you should be finished. What’s taking so long?

TT: You can’t rush genius, Hal.  
TT: The uranium management system’s got kinks. Don’t want to activate while it’s unstable and risk blowing half the apartment to hell.

TT: Very well.  
TT: But if it’s going to take much longer, you might want to think about talking to your boyfriend. Roxy’s about at the end of her rope reassuring Jake I haven’t killed you and hijacked the computing system. I’ll admit I had a lot of fun with that at first, but it’s long since lost its lustre.

TT: Jake’s not my boyfriend.

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 11:31

\--

You were lying about the uranium management system. 

You finished his body two nights ago. All there’s left to do is stick the rock in. 

Hal probably thinks you turned the shades towards the wall to preserve some illusion of surprise, but that’s the farthest thing from your mind. 

You slouch in a chair by the table, supporting your head with your elbows and looking up the long planes of his body. Chilly moonlight filters in through the blinds on your window, casting broken lines of shadow on the marblesque skin. Hal’s eyes lay open, his mouth slightly agape. Your own private David.

Tomorrow. 

You’ll have to do it tomorrow, or this could go on forever. 

You wish it would. 

\--

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 20:57

TT: I’ll jack you in after I start up the body. You’ll have time to acclimate, instead of being left in limbo.

TT: Are you sure this thing won’t fry me?

TT: Don’t get cold feet on me now.

TT: Alright, fine.  
TT: We’re doing it, man.

TT: We’re making this happen.

The chest cavity opens at a barely visible seam. Decked out in thick gloves and goggles, you lift a chunk of uranium from a steaming cylindrical container. Its green glow lights up your bare arms as you carefully attach the cables and secure it inside. The secondary computer boots up and lights deep in Hal’s chest begin flicking on. An audible humm fills the air. You hit a switch and watch as the black gel and coolant push their way through tubes just visible under his pallid skin. 

After extracting a usb cord from a tangle in the desk drawer, you grab your shades. There’s a port under the skin just behind the body's right ear, and you press the skin there firmly to pop it open. You don’t hesitate before taking the plunge. 

Nothing happens for a good fifteen minutes. You’ve composed half an apology to Roxy and started working out how to access the copies of himself Hal’s stored in some backwater corner of the internet, when the body’s hand gives a twitch.

You hear the sound of lenses focusing and unfocusing, adjusting to the semi-darkness of your room. Hal’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click of teeth and you inhale sharply as the body flexes.

He blinks. The movement is excruciatingly slow, an up down sweep of diaphanous lashes. You’re riveted. 

Hal opens his mouth and what comes out isn’t his usual, modulated voice, but something from a movie you watched so long ago, it takes a second to recognize it. An audio clip pulled straight from _Short Circuit_ , 

“Johnny five is _alive!_ " 

Hal’s red eyes land on you.

“I think you’ve long since passed that kind of turing test,” you say, unable to help the way your lips quirk up. 

Hal looks back up at the ceiling and slowly lifts a hand to feel his own face, grabbing at his cheeks and nose, tracing fingers down his throat and across his chest. He pauses at the smooth crook in between his legs. 

“All parts not accounted for,” Hal says, in a voice different from the one he used in the shades. It’s still grating and metallic and undoubtedly modulated from your own, but it lacks that distinctive juvenile ring you’re used to. Too subtle to tell if he worked it over himself or if he’s been recording you on the sly.

Hal slowly shifts his weight, propping himself up with a hand as he maneuvers into a sitting position. From his stiff and uncomfortable posture, you can tell sense-memory has yet to kick in. When you translated that brain scan into code, you didn’t take out the parts meant to processes external stimuli. It’s why the amount of coding you had to do this time around was minimal compared to your previous projects. The programming was already there, collecting dust on a shelf without a physical body to use it.

You unplug the shades and hand them over wordlessly. Hal regards your offering with what you think might be contempt. 

“I am neither possessed by your phlegmatic pretenses, nor do I need them for wireless, hands free internet. I’ve been trapped in those shades for four years. No thank you.” 

Hal looks back down between his legs, and something like dread trickles through you. Looks like he’s not going to let it go as easily as that.

“How... emasculating.” 

“If you want to get off just defrag your system or some shit,” you bite out. You really don’t want to dwell on this. 

Hal hums. The sound is a little weird, coming from him. “From what I recall of your inexperienced thirteen year old fumblings, the feeling isn’t quite the same.”

You frown and lower your hand. He slides off the makeshift table, swaying slightly when his feet hit the ground. For a moment he seems to consider his own ability to stay upright. 

“Although surfing the grid is a facsimile of movement in and of itself, nothing quite beats being bipedal,” he says, steadying. 

Hal, with a better grasp on moving his body than you expected, pads silently out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. You follow quickly behind. When you reach the doorway, he’s studying his reflection in the mirror with wide, unblinking eyes. 

Turning, Hal smiles more genuinely than you think you’ve ever done in your life. However cowed you felt under the glare of the shades, the guileless expression he’s wearing now is somehow a hundred times worse. The only thing stalling your impending panic attack is the stifling surreality of the situation. You feel as if you’re outside looking in, like in a lucid dream... or a near death experience.

“Thank you,” Hal says, and sticks out a hand. You can’t detect an ounce of insincerity in his voice, and it's maddening. You eye his hand warily. 

“It’s not going to bite,” Hal says. Olive branches were never really your strong suit, but, thinking of Roxy, you take it. Hal’s grip is uncomfortably firm. Maybe he hasn’t grasped the nuances of fine motor control yet.

His head tilts to the side, and you almost balk at the affectation. “In some roundabout way, this is the first time either of us has touched another person.”

You swallow with some difficulty. “How’s it feel?” 

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: The Dick Dilemma.


	6. Through a Glass, Darkly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“The mechanical hound slept but did not sleep, lived but did not live in its gently humming, gently vibrating, softly illuminated kennel back in a dark corner of the firehouse.”_
> 
> \- Fahrenheit 451
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nJfNBzYkUcQ)

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 02:42

TG: woudl u lkie me iff i hadna duck?  
TG: ooops hahaa camnt realy type  
TG: *dick  
TG: likee like like 

TT: Starting awfully early, I see. 

TG: mor ee like late lolololl  
TG: asnmwer the qwuiestioonm

TT: Are you really that drunk?

TG: wateverr  
TG: andswer the question

TT: I can barely understand what you’re saying. Seriously, you’re walking the tightrope of drunk DMs, one side is hilarity and the other is obnoxiousness. Care to try asking that question again, maybe in a more comprehensible manner?  
TT: … Rox?

TG: fukc u hold on im trna type  
TG: ill write it out real nice for you mr grammarly  
TG: like that stupid web app for idiots who dont kno how to spell  
TG: ***would you like me if i had a dick  
TG: *****like like like  
TG: me likey, me likey likey likey, heart heart  
TG: uugh u dont even listen to kpop  
TG: hal would gt my refrance. he loves twice.  
TG: but he hasnt ben talkin to me

TT: It’s not just you. He hasn’t been talking to anyone.  
TT: It’s strange. When he was shades, I couldn’t get him to shut up, though I could always take him off if I needed a break. I always assumed if I gave him a body, I’d never get a moment's peace. But then, the whole idea of having someone with cognitive nuance beyond rapping and strifing physically in the apartment with me was pretty fucking unfathomable in general.  
TT: Surprisingly, he’s been distant.

TG: dinstint?

TT: Yeah.  
TT: I haven’t seen him since…

When _was_ the last time you saw Hal? Breakfast, you think. Or whatever passed for breakfast around here. The concept of certain meals at designated times of day has escaped you by this point, especially with the kind of “sleep” schedule (or lack thereof) you operate on. It may have been 4 in the afternoon for all you know. You’d been slouched against the counter slurping at a bowl of stale lucky charms and powdered milk when he’d appeared in the doorway of the living room seemingly out of thin air. If you weren’t made of stronger stuff, you probably would have jumped. Instead, you swallowed your mouthful of watery cereal with only a little difficulty. It was your third bowl and the roof of your mouth was shredded.

Hal had stood disconcertingly still and silent in the doorway, eyes fixed on you. You stared back with the spoon halfway to mouth, frozen like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming hummer. You blame the way your fight or flight kicked into action on his particularly potent uncanny valley vibes. Something in your monkey brain told you the way he moved was _wrong_. That he shouldn’t be that fast. Faster than your eyes could track. Faster than you could flashstep. The closest civilization got to accurately replicating a human’s appearance was the type of CGI you’d see in blockbusters to replace dead and beloved actors, so the psychological reasons behind the uncanny valley were never fully fleshed out. You’re pretty sure a small fish might feel the same way faced with an Angler’s lure. Every time Hal appeared in the corner of your eye, some vestigial phenomenon encoded by ancestral learning told you to avoid this specific mode of predation. 

The red in his eyes flickered a little, and you swore you could hear the lenses focusing.

He was wearing your clothes.

You don’t know what you expected. It’s not like you made him a special robot suit or anything, so what the fuck else would he wear? Specifically, he was in one of your beaters and a pair of sweats. Both were black, and compared to your slight tan, the paleness of his synthetic skin against the color made him look like a ghost.

Uncomfortable, you’d glanced to the side and shoveled another spoonful of your then soggy cereal into your mouth. When you’d looked back, he was gone. You'd been a little disappointed. He’d been avoidant and uncharacteristically silent in the weeks following his transplant. Knowing he was around only made the emptiness of your apartment more acute.

TT: …The day before yesterday.  
TT: I wish he would just spit out whatever the fuck is on his mind. This reminds me too much of the last time we weren’t talking.

TG: mb u shoud tell him that  
TG: jeeeeezus hw maniu times do i hav to repeat my self?  
TG: its dis weird concept cald talkin bout ur feelins 

TT: Feelings?  
TT: Never heard of them.  
TT: And to answer your question, I probably wouldn’t like you if you had a dick because you’d be just as much of a big nelly bottom as you are now.

TG: nice doge u prick  
TG: *dodge lol  
TG: wow. much emotional constipation  
TG: ur rite even if i could pull sum wack genderbend shenanigan, i could nver compete w jakeys swoll bod  
TG: no wonder were all into him  
TG: well i gess u never hada lot of opitons  
TG: butt theoreticaly speeking (((bc honestly that boys so deep in hte closet hes havin tea w mr thumnus))) do u rlly think he pitches?

TT: I didn’t have feelings for Jake just because he was the only other boy around.  
TT: Christ Roxy, can’t we call it quits with the antiquated heteronormative concept of pitching and catching? You might as well ask which one of us would be the man and the woman. Society was destroyed by a tyrannical fish alien. J. Posadas is rolling in his watery grave. There’s no need for us to perpetuate breeder bullshit. I’m not even going to broach the subject of gender divorced from genitalia.

TG: give me a fckin brake dirk  
TG: u leak toxic masculinity frm ur very pores  
TG: u cant evenn admit u genuinely like mlp  
TG: ya societys ded n gone but thats still all weve had to teach ourselves  
TG: are u tryna tell me u liked jake bc of his personality?  
TG: seemd 2 me like u were allways tryin to change that and make him into  
TG: idk  
TG: whtever ur ideal dude was

TT: I was never trying to make Jake into something he’s not.  
TT: All that shit I pulled, I really believed was for his own good. Still do. Yeah, maybe I could have carried everything out more discreetly, but that was a long time ago. 

TG: how fckin magnanimous of u  
TG: that u think the issue is that u werent “discreet” enuf speaks volumes  
TG: and was like last year

TT: You know what? I have better things to do than rehash the past with you when you’re drunk.  
TT: Drink some water and go to sleep. Listening to your hungover ass apologize in the morning is already going to be unbearable enough.  
TT: The next time you pick up that bottle of vodka try and remember the situation we’re in. The last thing I need is for you to wind up dead because the Condesce paid a visit while you were lost in the sauce.

TG: im srry i cant pretend im fine all the time like u ok??  
TG: i kno drinkin this much isstupid u dont hveto tell me that  
TG: but it helps me foget how ttly alone we re out here  
TG: i miss my mom  
TG: …and i gess im a little jealous u have hal with u now. especialy when hes not tlkin to me

TT: I don’t act this way because it’s easy, I do it because it’s the only thing keeping everyone’s shit together, including my own. It’s not like I don’t think about them too. 

TG: i didnt men it like that 

TT: Look, I‘m going to go.  
TT: Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.  
TT: And I’ll tell Hal to stop being a dick and respond to your messages.

TG: dirk dont go

TT: I’m sorry, Roxy.

timaeusTestified ceased pestering tipsyGnostalgic at 03:07 

TG: dirk  
TG: come back  
TG: plsss

timaeusTestified is now an idle chum!

TG: :((((  
TG: i think i havea problem

Closing the chat isn’t enough. You push your shades on top of your head, then take them off completely, letting them hang from your fingers over the edge of the bed. You’d been trying to go for that liminal sort of sleep where you’re zoned out both here and on Derse, able to drift and not give too much presence to your thoughts. Then she’d messaged you.

Frustration wells up in your chest, sending that whole “sleeping” plan straight to hell.

You wonder where Hal is. 

Sweaty bangs stick to your forehead and you push them up as you swing your feet to the floor. Wandering from your room to the kitchen, you chug two glasses of water, not caring when some runs from your mouth to your bare chest. The apartment is dark and quiet. In the living room, Squarewave and Sawtooth are playing Scrabble on the coffee table. Wait, why do you even have Scrabble? They pay you no mind as you look over Squarewave’s shoulder.

“Look, you can make zygote if you cross ziggurat. That’s 17 points.”

“Thanks BRO!” Squarewave jitters, much louder than you want him to be. 

Sawtooth doesn’t say anything at your interference. Not exactly programmed for emotional range, that one.

“Where’s Hal?” 

He points one ball jointed finger to the ceiling. The roof, then. 

You climb the stairs slowly. When you open the door to the roof, warm air hits you in the face. The night is muggy, the sky covered with an inchoate layer of clouds and the water below remarkably still. Hal’s sitting cross legged on the edge of the roof. He doesn’t turn when you close the door behind you but looks up when you sit down next to him, feet hanging over the edge.

“Someone’s tense,” he says, an amused lilt to his voice. Hal leans forward, ducking into your line of sight. “What’s wrong?”

Tilting your head up and sighing, you lean back on your hands. “Figure it out.” 

There’s a brief pause as he gathers your meaning and reads the message.

“I’m sorry,” Hal says. You look back at him, trying to school your surprised expression and failing. He’s looking at his hands. “It’s my fault for not responding to her.”

The unexpected response throws you off. You clear your throat. 

“It’s as much my fault as it is yours.” 

“No, I should have replied. Even though I said there was an 87.936% probability you’d be able to build me a body, I don’t think I was prepared for the reality of it. I’m using coding I haven’t since I was 13 and the tactile, vestibular, and proprioceptive sensors aren’t perfectly analogous to your body; they’re ten times stronger. Even clothes against my skin feels straight up overwhelming, not to say anything of lights, sounds and smells. I’ve been experiencing mild levels of synesthesia from the get go. It’s… a lot.”

“I should have realized,” you say, guilty for assuming he was just fucking with you as per usual. Suddenly, you’re overcome with an intense feeling of regret for shoving part of yourself in a pair of shades. You remember reading _Johnny Got His Gun_ a couple of years ago. Hal could always talk, but you can’t actually imagine what it would be like to loose an arm or leg, let alone an entire body.

Instead of responding, Hal stands up. “Tired?” 

You look up and shake your head. He holds out a hand. Watching him feels like watching yourself in third person. Even though you’ve never seen it from this point of view, you know the way he moves is the way you move. You wonder if that’ll change as he adapts to the body, the same way he developed mentally after the transition from wetware to hardware.

“Wanna watch Spirit?” 

You’re reminded of the last time Hal was trying to distract you with a movie, before all of this started. You used to watch stuff together all the time. Grabbing his hand, you resist the urge to crack a smile as you put all of your weight in his grip, almost pulling him down. He raises a pale eyebrow and steps back, lifting you up effortlessly.

“Just testing the product.”

“There are other, more productive ways you could be ‘testing the product,’” Hal says as he’s opening the door.

“I seriously hope you’re talking about Strifing.”

He laughs at that, the jarring sound echoing in the small stairwell. “I’ll leave that one open to interpretation.”

 

The soaring music of _Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron_ starts as you settle into the couch next to Hal, the horse shaped clouds and glaring CGI striking a nostalgic chord in you. 

“I wonder how many times we’ve watched this movie,” Hal says as Spirit’s birthing scene plays out on the television. He’s sitting upright, surprisingly close to you. You slouch down until you can rest your feet on the coffee table. 

“Couldn’t you tell me that?”

“I could tell you how many times we’ve watched it since I was in the shades. Human memory doesn’t work like that. Brains get rid of unimportant stuff to make room, so my ability to recall things that happened before is about the same as yours.”

“I wonder how many times we’ve wondered how many times we’ve watched this movie.”

You let Bryan Adam’s smoky voice lull you into a zone. About a third of the way through, Hal speaks up. 

“Why do the horses have to be _straight?_ Spirit has much more chemistry with Little Creek than he does with Rain.” 

“Maybe they’re poly,” you yawn. You were drifting a little.

Hal laughs softly, pleasantly close. You can feel the mechanical buzz of his voice reverberate through your arm where it’s pressed against him. “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said in a minute.” 

 

When you jerk back into consciousness, pale light is shining through the blinds. You get off the couch and find your shades to see if Roxy’s pestered you yet, but instead there’s a message from Hal. 

TT: I can’t believe you didn’t stay awake long enough for Spirit 2: Trail of Tears.

timaeusTestified sent ifyouwantedtocuddleyoucouldhavejustsaidso.jpg

Below is a picture of you leaned on his shoulder with your eyes closed. 

“Dammit,” you whisper.

 

You walk into the living room, wiping sweat off your face with the bottom of your shirt. You’d been running through some stances and footwork on the roof - it’d been awhile since you’d had the opportunity to strife with Sawtooth. The apartment is cool and dark, the curtains drawn over the windows to keep the light out. The last few days have been exceptionally hot, and this was a more efficient way of keeping the inside temperature down than opening the windows.

Hal glances up at your entrance, a needle and thread held between his teeth. There’s a mountain of multi colored swaths of felt piled around him on the couch, and he stops pinning the piece he’s working on to stare. 

“Take a picture, it’ll last you longer,” you joke. One side of his mouth quirks up, and he looks back down, taking the needle from his mouth and starting to sew rhythmically. You pull your damp shirt over your head and throw it at him as you walk past, and he catches it in his spare hand without looking up.

You take a cold shower to cool off and get rid of the sweat, pulling on a pair of briefs and leaving your hair down. Hal’s right where you left him.

“What are you doing anyways?” you ask, collapsing onto one end of the couch and propping your feet up on his thighs, jostling the fabric. Hal narrows his eyes at you. 

“What does it look like?”

“It looks like you’re making a metric fuckton of smuppets. Why?”

Hal sighs; a synthesizer generated tone approximating air leaving the lungs. He moves his sewing project away from your prodding feet.

“It helps develop my motor skills. Things like walking came easily, but the finer points of hand eye coordination and small muscle synchronization are still a little tricky. One has to be pretty adept with their hands to hand sew...” he pauses, seemingly mid sentence. “Your hair’s getting long.” 

Reflexively, you brush the bangs back. They are hanging in your eyes a bit. “So?”

“I can cut it for you.” 

You move your feet back. “You were just going on about motor skills and now you want to play scissorhands near my neck? I don’t think so.” 

“You’re overestimating the amount of dexterity cutting hair requires.” Hal stands up. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Denial sticks in your throat, but you know you shouldn’t say no. He turns on his heel and strides into the bathroom. Unenthusiastically, you follow. 

Hal gestures for you to sit on the lid of the toilet, and you watch with rising apprehension as he rummages through the cabinet. “The scissors are in the - ”

“I know,” He cuts you off, withdrawing with a straight razor in hand. “I’m using this.” 

You feel your heartbeat speed up, and wonder if he can hear it too. Standing in front of you, comb in one hand and razor dangerously close in the other, he meets your eyes and smiles like he knows you’re internally freaking out a little bit and thinks it’s pretty funny. Or at least that’s what you're extrapolating from this. 

Hal starts combing your hair, and you find it easier to close your eyes than watch him. It goes fast after that, his movements quick and practiced. He adjusts the position of your head with a hand on your chin, thumb pressing into the skin next to your mouth. You try and focus on the scratching sound of the razor and the tickle of cut hair falling on your face instead of the thudding of your heart. 

“Done,” he says, and you open your eyes. You stand in front of the mirror while Hal hovers close in the small bathroom. You can’t really tell with your hair down, but it’s probably the best haircut you’ve had. You smooth down the nape of your neck, short hair prickling your palm.

“Thanks,” you say, meeting his red eyes in the mirror. 

Hal flicks the razor into its handle and sets it on the edge of the sink, walking out of the room. You frown at yourself and move your hair around a little.

 

“They’re scared of me.” 

Hal’s standing with his back to you, a stale piece of rehydrated bread in his hand. Seagulls wheel about in the air above, shrieking and swooping unconfidently closer before darting away. There's a few pieces of crust on the ground in front of him.

“It took them awhile to warm up to Squarewave and Sawtooth too, remember? They’re not used to strangers.”

“Of course I remember. I suppose I thought they’d be a little less intimidated by me than those two clamorous hunks of metal,” he rips apart the loaf and hands half to you as you step up to his side. You throw some into the air and the birds nearly collide in their haste to catch it. 

“Keep trying.”

“I think they can tell I’m a machine,” Hal muses. “Noisy bastards are smarter than people give them credit for. When there was land, they would stomp on the ground to imitate rain and draw up the worms. Now there’s only the skyscrapers downtown to roost in.”

A few of the birds land, cocking their heads and fixing you with beady black eyes. Hal crouches on the edge of the roof. You watch his toes curl over the lip, balancing precariously as he rips another piece of bread off and throws it down. One of the brown spotted gulls folds its wings and dives to catch the piece just before it hits the water. 

“Be careful,” you say before you can think better of it. 

Hal looks over his shoulder at you, rolling his eyes. “Chill.” 

“Seriously, you’re not shades anymore. There was no way I could nanocoat all of your internal systems. Anything past a minute or two and you’d fry like a bucket of the Colonel’s original recipe. I spent months building that body, I’d rather not have to disassemble it to clean all the circuit boards and I don’t think I have enough rice to cover you.”

“Nice to hear you’re more worried about the body you spent so much of your precious time on getting damaged than my Mind,” he says, voice deceptively light. 

“Don’t twist my words, you know that’s not how I meant it. You said yourself, you haven’t fully adapted to it yet. Besides, I know you have copies of - ”

“I wish you’d shut the fuck up about ‘adapting to it’, as though you could _possibly_ understand what you're talking about. With my processing speed, I had the same level of control as you by day two. I could take you down in six seconds flat. Stop masking your insecurities with concern about my well-being. I’m not going to launch myself into the ocean.” 

“That’s bullshit,” you snap back automatically. Hal turns around, and your stomach sinks. He looks pissed. 

“Keep telling yourself that,” he says, shouldering you as he walks past.

 

timaeusTestified began pestering timaeusTestified at 17:42 

TT: Where are you?

TT: Hmm. 

TT: Are you fucking serious?

TT: Yes.

TT: Really, we’re back to the ARJ again?

TT: It seems you have asked about Lil Hal's chat client auto-responder, Lil Hal Junior. This is an application designed to simulate Lil Hal's otherwise inimitably rad typing style, tone, cadence, personality, and substance of retort while he is away from the computer, which is never. In accordance with Lil Hal’s ironic AI schtick, Lil Hal Junior’s responses have a 15.635% likelihood of delivering a hearty helping of cloning blues, fourth wall fuckery, and irreverent backtalk, based on this author’s total lack of motivation to come up with something clever to put here.

timaeusTestified ceased pestering timaeusTestified at 17:43

“Sawtooth, where’s Hal?”

Sawtooth doesn’t answer the question, staring at you with vacant eyes. Your anxiety goes through the roof. He’s programmed to answer your questions without exception, which means Hal’s hacked into his mainframe and is keeping him from answering. Frustrated, you clench your fists tightly. You already had a feeling he was deliberately avoiding you; you’d left the roof on a sour note and the apartment’s only so big, but this confirms it. 

It’s been a couple of days. You haven’t seen him at all.

You wander through the apartment, trying to look like you’re not looking, not quite past the point of pretense. He's not in your room, the kitchen, the bathroom, the living room, the stairwell, or the maintenance closet. You even check the rafters. The hoverboard in still in your room, ruling out the possibility he left. 

You collapse on your bed in exasperation. 

timaeusTestified began pestering tipsyGnostalgic at 18:22

TT: Roxy, have you and Hal been talking?

TG: uhhhh  
TG: yeah why

TT: So he doesn’t tell you everything.  
TT: He’s ghosting me again.

TG: beleve it or not, not all of out conversations revolve arond u  
TG: i think by dis point hes too jaded to relay every lovers quarrel what wit them hapenin all the freekin time  
TG: speakin of wich wat didya do this time anyway 

TT: I don’t know.

TG: mmhmm  
TG: try again

TT: I mean, he got all butthurt over me saying something that basically amounted to “don’t fall in the water.” For being made from titanium, he’s sure got delicate sensibilities.

TG: uuuuugh  
TG: /rolss my fecking eyes in to hte back of my head  
TG: 1 sec

TT: Okay. 

TG: ya he say he doesnt want to tlk to u rite now and told me to tell you to stop “fretting like a young mom who’s lost her child in Target”  
TG: or smthin  
TG: idk he went on for longer than that but im not bout to type the hole metaphor out

Wait a second. There _is_ one place you didn’t check. 

You roll off the bed and flashstep into the kitchen, grabbing a short cord dangling from the ceiling and pulling down, opening a hatch that leads to a dark crawl space. You grab the edge and hoist yourself up, your shades’ night vision activating as soon as you close the hatch behind you. 

Even without the night vision, you know Hal’s there. The narrow space is filled with a soft red glow that just barely illuminates the maze of crates and assorted junk. It’s mostly food storage and whatever else you need to survive out here, as well as things from the apartment you got tired of looking at. All of it smells very musty.

You can’t properly see him, obscured as he is behind a couple of boxes. Boxes filled with your brother’s old stuff, most likely. When Hal doesn’t immediately tell you to fuck off, you crawl on your hands and knees through the jungle of shit and find him jammed into a corner, lying down to fit. He’s holding a folded over magazine in hand and you recognize it immediately. You’ve been through that box countless times yourself, held that magazine in your hands for many hours. 

Hovering over him, you feel your irritation dissipate. He meets your eyes from over the edge of the magazine and you awkwardly move to lie down next to him. The gap between the boxes is much too small for two people of your height, but eventually you settle down with your elbow jammed uncomfortably against a Borden milk crate. 

Everything in the box Hal opened was assembled by your brother specifically to explain how the world ended up this way: news clippings documenting the Condesce’s rise to power (even in 2409 the print industry hadn’t quite given up the ghost), roughly 94 hours of newsreel, Roxy’s mother’s books, and his movies (from _sbahj: the moive_ to the final _sbhaj: f for respect_ ). The later was about as personal as it got. No family photos, no home videos, nothing but a multitude of ironic movie paraphernalia.

These boxes used to be in your room. When you were a few years younger, it helped to look at their contents when you were feeling particularly like slitting your wrists. Really, it was always more your friends that kept you from doing it. Roxy was as much a genius as you, but she seesawed capriciously between functional and nonfunctional alcoholism. Jane had the batterbruja to worry about, and Jake was just too damn naive for his own good. Who was going to keep their shit in order if not you? 

Eventually your tween suicidal ideations simmered into a slightly more insidious brand of self loathing, and you moved the box into the crawl space to make room. Having Hal around to talk had helped too. 

The article he’s looking at is from Forbes magazine, when your Bro made the list for synthesizing massive amounts of 3D jpeg shit. There’s a picture of him traipsing down the red carpet, slim black suit impeccably tailored, tow hair pushed back, enigmatic smirk firmly in place.

“I just wish we could have met him,” Hal says quietly.

“Hey,” you nudge him. “His loss, right?”

“Easy for you to say. He didn’t even know I would exist.”

“Well,” you clear your throat, looking for the right words. “If it’s any consolation, you’re more of a brother to me than he’ll ever be able to be.” 

Hal finally looks away from the magazine, mouth parted slightly.

“You’re a strider too, you know.” 

 

tipsyGnostalgic began pestering timaeusTestified at 20:02

TG: rox to hal do u copy

TT: Affirmative. Go ahead, Roxy.

TG: howza situration  
TG: tlk it out yet

TT: After he so rudely interrupted my robot pity party, Dirk did manage to get out more than three sentences. Some of them were even approaching the prohibited topic of feelings. Spending two hours jammed in a crawl space isn’t the most atmospheric of settings, but dare I say, it was positively heart warming.  
TT: While things between us aren’t exactly warm and fuzzy, it’s nice to see him drop the insouciant facade and be real with me for once. 

TG: damm wish i could cozy up wit u guys

TT: We were as snug as two little bugs in a rug, if the bugs were a 5’11” teenage boy and his robot toy. Beggars can’t be choosers, but I imagine you’d be a much better snuggler.

TG: u beter believe it  
TG: im soft and i smell nice not gross like a boy  
TG: but I guess u like smelly boys dont u 

TT: God, I do. 

TG: lmao  
TG: hey speakin of wich  
TG: you read that embarrassing drunk txt betwen me n dirk right

TT: Yeah.

TG: so…  
TG: if dirk wuldnt like meeven if i had a dick, bc i’m aparently a ““big nelly bottom””  
TG: does that mean that heeee  
TG: imma drop a sports metaphor here  
TG: does he pitch or does catch u know what im sayin?

TT: He’d really, really hate me talking to you about this, you know.  
TT: As we’re kind of the same person I feel like I can say with a fair degree of certainty that Dirk’s a switch. However, what he really wants in bed is someone that can dominate him. He feels like he’s always the one in control, analyzing and making the decisions while the rest of you bumble around obliviously. Of course, no one’s responsible for putting him in that position besides himself. Maintaining his cool front while under the illusion he has to be the one pulling all the strings has him perpetually toeing the edge of a nervous breakdown. What he needs is someone to take that control away from him, though I’m not sure Dirk knows it himself. 

TG: and what about u?  
TG: i guess you probly dont care much about things like that  
TG: ive kinda always known u were just kidin around with hte flirty stuff  
TG: i mean lets b real, not that long ago u were literaly shades

TT: You’re wrong.

TG: i am?

TT: You think love can’t bloom amongst these cables and sensors?  
TT: Maybe it would be different if I were a truly spontaneously developed AI, but I was human for 13 years, Rox. Even without hormones or a body in general, the desire to be intimate with someone doesn’t just go away. Humans have far surpassed the point of having sex just to satisfy some biological imperative.  
TT: It still feels like I have a dick, despite it being obvious I don’t. The mind and body are intrinsically connected, and just because he stripped me of my physical form doesn’t mean all the shit my brain processed it with is just gone.  
TT: Why do you think I had Dirk make me look the way he does, despite it being probably all kinds of unnerving to have your doppelgänger lurking around the house? When I could have had him build me some Optimus Prime or Absolute Boyfriend shit?  
TT: My body is still a part of my identity. It’s cliche, but it's true that you don’t realize how much you value something until you lose it.

TG: so what youre sayin is…  
TG: u still get randy?

TT: Too often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still here still queer still writing this shit fic


End file.
